LIBRARY 

JNIVERSITY  OF 

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SANTA  CRUZ 


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35  £5 


SHANDYGAFF 


BOOKS  BY 
CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 

HIDE  AND  SEEK 

KATHLEEN 

MINCE  PIE 

PARNASSUS  ON  WHEELS 

PIPEFULS 

ROCKING  HORSE 

SHANDYGAFF 

SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

TRAVELS  IN  PHILADELPHIA 


SHANDYGAFF 

A  number  of  most  agreeable  Inquirendoes 
upon  Life  and  Letters,  interspersed  with 
Short  Stories  and  Skitts,  the  whole  Most 
Diverting  to  the  Reader 


Accompanied  also  by  some  Notes  for  Teachers 
whereby  the  Booke  may  be  made  usefull 
in  class-room  or  for  private  Improvement 


By 

CHRISTOPHER    MORLEY 

Reputed  also  to  be  the  Authour  of  "Parnassus 
on  Wheels,"  and  "Songs  for  a  Little  House" 


Published  by  Doubleday,  Page  and  Company 
at  the  Country  Life  Press  in  Garden  City, 
New  York,  and  to  be  had  at  the  Terminal 
BoQk  Shop,  the  Lord  &  Taylor  Book  Shop, 
the  Liberty  Tower  Book  Shop,  and  indeed 
of  all  reputable  booksellers.  A°  DonV  1921 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


PRINTED  AT  GARDEN  CITV,  N.  Y.,  U.   S.  A. 


TITLES  AND  DEDICATIONS 

I  WANTED  to  call  these  exercises  "Casual 
Ablutions,"  in  memory  of  the  immortal  sign 
in  the  washroom  of  the  British  Museum,  but 
my  arbiter  of  elegance  forbade  it.  You  remember 
that  George  Gissing,  homeless  and  penniless  on 
London  streets,  used  to  enjoy  the  lavatory  of  the 
Museum  Reading  Room  as  a  fountain  .and  a 
shrine.  But  the  flinty  hearted  trustees,  finding 
him  using  the  wash-stand  for  bath-tub  and 
laundry,  were  exceeding  wroth,  and  set  up  the 
notice 


THESE    BASINS    ARE    FOR 
CASUAL  ABLUTIONS  ONLY 


I  would  like  to  issue  the  same  warning  to  the 
implacable  reader:  these  fugitive  pieces,  very 
casual  rinsings  in  the  great  basin  of  letters,  must 
not  be  too  bitterly  resented,  even  by  their  pub- 
lishers. To  borrow  O.  Henry's  joke,  they  are  more 
demitasso  than  Tasso. 

The  real  purpose  in  writing  books  is  to  have 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


PRINTED  AT  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y.,  U.   S.  A. 


TITLES  AND  DEDICATIONS 

I  WANTED  to  call  these  exercises  "Casual 
Ablutions,"  in  memory  of  the  immortal  sign 
in  the  washroom  of  the  British  Museum,  but 
my  arbiter  of  elegance  forbade  it.  You  remember 
that  George  Gissing,  homeless  and  penniless  on 
London  streets,  used  to  enjoy  the  lavatory  of  the 
Museum  Reading  Room  as  a  fountain  .and  a 
shrine.  But  the  flinty  hearted  trustees,  finding 
him  using  the  wash-stand  for  bath-tub  and 
laundry,  were  exceeding  wroth,  and  set  up  the 
notice 


THESE    BASINS    ARE    FOR 
CASUAL  ABLUTIONS  ONLY 


I  would  like  to  issue  the  same  warning  to  the 
implacable  reader:  these  fugitive  pieces,  very 
casual  rinsings  in  the  great  basin  of  letters,  must 
not  be  too  bitterly  resented,  even  by  their  pub- 
lishers. To  borrow  0.  Henry's  joke,  they  are  more 
demitasso  than  Tasso. 

The  real  purpose  in  writing  books  is  to  have 


SHANDYGAFF:  a  very  refreshing  drink,  being  a 
mixture  of  bitter  ale  or  beer  and  ginger-beer,  commonly 
drunk  by  the  lower  classes  in  England,  and  by  stroll- 
ing tinkers,  low  church  parsons,  newspaper  men, 
journalists,  and  prizefighters.  Said  to  have  been  in- 
vented by  Henry  VIII  as  a  solace  for  his  matrimonial 
difficulties.  It  is  believed  that  a  continual  bibbing  of 
shandygaff  saps  the  will,  the  nerves,  the  resolution,  and 
the  finer  faculties,  but  there  are  those  who  will  abide 
no  other  tipple. 

John  Mistletoe: 

Dictionary  of  Deplorable  Facts. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Song  of  Shandygaff v 

Titles  and  Dedications vii 

A  Question  of  Plumage 3 

Don  Marquis 22 

The  Art  of  Walking     .......  43 

Rupert  Brooke 58 

The  Man 72 

The  Head  of  the  Firm       ......  82 

17  Heriot  Row 90 

Frank  Confessions  of  a  Publisher's  Reader  .  103 

William  McFee 112 

Rhubarb '   .      .  127 

The  Haunting  Beauty  of  Strychnine      .      .  137 

Ingo  .      .      . 142 

Housebroken 150 

The  Hilarity  of  Hilaire 154 

A  Casual  of  the  Sea     .' 169 

The  Last  Pipe 182 


x  CONTENTS 

i  PAGl 

Time  to  Light  the  Furnace    .     ....  194 

My  Friend 201 

A  Poet  of  Sad  Vigils    .......  2(K 

Trivia 22$ 

Prefaces        ..'...' 221 

The  Skipper 23* 

A  Friend  of  FitzGerald     ......  24( 

A  Venture  in  Mysticism 26( 

An  Oxford  Landlady 26( 

"Peacock  Pie" 271 

The  Literary  Pawnshop    .      .      .      .      .      .27* 

A  Morning  in  Marathon    .      .      .      .      .      .  284 

The  American  House  of  Lords     ....  281 

Cotswold  Winds     .      .      .      .      .      ...  29$ 

Clouds   . ...  29( 

Unhealthy .  30C 

Confessions  of  a  Smoker  .      .      .      .      .      .  30£ 

Hay  Febrifuge »      .  315 

Appendix:  Suggestions  for  Teachers.      .      0  324 


SHANDYGAFF 


SHANDYGAFF 


A  QUESTION  OF  PLUMAGE 

KENNETH  STOCKTON  was  a  man  of 
letters,  and  correspondingly  poor.  He 
was  the  literary  editor  of  a  leading  metro- 
politan daily;  but  this  job  only  netted  him  fifty 
dollars  a  week,  and  he  was  lucky  to  get  that  much. 
The  owner  of  the  paper  was  powerfully  in  favour  of 
having  the  reviews  done  by  the  sporting  editor,  and 
confining  them  to  the  books  of  those  publishers 
who  bought  advertising  space.  This  simple  and 
statesmanlike  view  the  owner  had  frequently 
expressed  in  Mr.  Stockton's  hearing,  so  the  latter 
was  never  very  sure  how  long  his  job  would  con- 
tinue. 

But  Mr.  Stockton  had  a  house,  a  wife,  and  four 
children  in  New  Utrecht,  that  very  ingenious  sub- 
urb of  Brooklyn.  He  had  worked  the  problem 
out  to  a  nicety  long  ago.  If  he  did  not  bring 
home,  on  the  average,  eighty  dollars  a  week,  his 
household  would  cease  to  revolve.  It  simply 
had  to  be  done.  The  house  was  still  being  paid 

8 


4  SHANDYGAFF 

for  on  the  installment  plan.  There  were  plumb- 
ers' bills,  servant's  wages,  clothes  and  schooling 
for  the  children,  clothes  for  the  wife,  two  suits  a 
year  for  himself,  and  the  dues  of  the  Sheepshead 
Golf  Club — his  only  extravagance.  A  simple 
middle-class  routine,  but  one  that,  once  embarked 
upon,  turns  into  a  treadmill.  As  I  say,  eighty 
dollars  a  week  would  just  cover  expenses.  To 
accumulate  any  savings,  pay  for  life  insurance, 
and  entertain  friends,  Stockton  had  to  rise  above 
that  minimum.  If  in  any  week  he  fell  below  that 
figure  he  could  not  lie  abed  at  night  and  "snort 
his  fill,"  as  the  Elizabethan  song  naively  puts  it. 

There  you  have  the  groundwork  of  many  a 
domestic  drama. 

Mr.  Stockton  worked  pretty  hard  at  the  news- 
paper office  to  earn  his  fifty  .dollars.  He  skimmed 
faithfully  all  the  books  that  came  in,  wrote  pains- 
taking reviews,  and  took  care  to  run  cuts  on  his 
literary  page  on  Saturdays  "to  give  the  stuff  kick," 
as  the  proprietor  ordered.  Though  he  did  so  with 
reluctance,  he  was  forced  now  and  then  to  ap- 
proach the  book  publishers  on  the  subject  of 
advertising.  He  gave  earnest  and  honest  thought 
to  his  literary  department,  and  was  once  praised 
by  Mr.  Howells  in  Harper's  Magazine  for  the 
honourable  quality  of  his  criticisms. 

But  Mr.  Stockton,  like  most  men,  had  only  a 


SHANDYGAFF  5 

certain  fund  of  energy  and  enthusiasm  at  his  dis- 
posal. His  work  on  the  paper  used  up  the  first 
fruits  of  his  zeal  and  strength.  After  that  came 
his  article  on  current  poetry,  written  (unsigned) 
for  a  leading  imitation  literary  weekly.  The 
preparation  of  this  involved  a  careful  perusal  of  at 
least  fifty  journals,  both  American  and  foreign, 
and  I  blush  to  say  it  brought  him  only  fifteen 
dollars  a  week.  He  wrote  a  weekly  "New  York 
Letter"  for  a  Chicago  paper  of  bookish  tendencies, 
in  which  he  told  with  a  flavour  of  intimacy  the 
goings  on  of  literary  men  in  Manhattan  whom  he 
never  had  time  or  opportunity  to  meet.  This 
article  was  paid  for  at  space  rates,  which  are  less 
in  Chicago  than  in  New  York.  On  this  count 
he  averaged  about  six  dollars  a  week. 

That  brings  us  up  to  seventy-one  dollars,  and 
also  pretty  close  to  the  limit  of  our  friend's  en- 
durance; The  additional  ten  dollars  or  so  needed 
for  the  stability  of  the  Stockton  exchequer  he 
earned  in  various  ways.  Neighbours  in  New 
Utrecht  would  hear  his  weary  typewriter  clacking 
far  into  the  night.  He  wrote  short  stories,  of  only 
fair  merit;  and  he  wrote  "Sunday  stories,"  which 
is  the  lowest  depth  to  which  a  self-respecting  lover 
of  literature  can  fall.  Once  in  a  while  he  gave  a 
lecture  on  poetry,  but  he  was  a  shy  man,  and  he 
never  was  asked  to.  lecture,  twice  in  the  same 


6  SHANDYGAFF 

place.  By  almost  incredible  exertions  of  courage 
and  obstinacy  he  wrote  a  novel,  which  was  pub- 
lished, and  sold  2,580  copies  the  first  year.  His 
royalties  on  this  amounted  to  $348.30 — not  one- 
third  as  much,  he  reflected  sadly,  as  Irvin  Cobb 
would  receive  for  a  single  short  story.  He  even  did 
a  little  private  tutoring  at  his  home,  giving  the  sons 
of  some  of  his  friends  lessons  in  English  literature. 

It  is  to  be  seen  that  Mr.  Stockton's  relatives, 
back  in  Indiana,  were  wrong  when  they  wrote  to 
him  admiringly — as  they  did  twice  a  year — asking 
for  loans,  and  praising  the  bold  and  debonair  life 
of  a  man  of  letters  in  the  great  city.  They  did 
not  know  that  for  ten  years  Mr.  Stockton  had 
refused  the  offers  of  his  friends  to  put  him  up  for 
membership  at  the  literary  club  to  which  his 
fancy  turned  so  fondly  and  so  often.  He  could 
not  afford  it.  When  friends  from  out  of  town 
called  on  him,  he  took  them  to  Peck's  for  a  French 
table  d'hote,  with  an  apologetic  murmur. 

But  it  is  not  to  be  thought  that  Mr.  Stockton 
was  unhappy  or  discontented.  Those  who  have 
experienced  the  excitements  of  the  existence  where 
one  lives  from  hand  to  mouth  and  back  to  hand 
again,  with  rarely  more  than  fifty  cents  of  loose 
change  in  pocket,  know  that  there  is  even  a  kind 
of  pleasurable  exhilaration  in  it.  The  characters 
in  George  Gissfog's  Grub  Street  stories  would 


SHANDYGAFF  1 

have  thought  Stockton  rich  indeed  with  his  fifty- 
dollar  salary.  But  he  was  one  of  those  estimable 
men  who  have  sense  enough  to  give  all  their 
money  to  their  wives  and  keep  none  in  their 
trousers.  And  though  his  life  was  arduous  and 
perhaps  dull  to  outward  view,  he  was  a  passionate 
lover  of  books,  and  in  his  little  box  at  the  back  of 
the  newspaper  office,  smoking  a  corncob  and 
thumping  out  his  reviews,  he  was  one  of  the  hap- 
piest men  in  New  York.  His  thirst  for  books  was 
a  positive  bulimia;  how  joyful  he  was  when  he 
found  time  to  do  a  little  work  on  his  growing  sheaf 
of  literary  essays,  which  he  intended  to  call 
"  Casual  Ablutions,"  after  the  famous  sign  in  the 
British  Museum  washroom. 

It  was  Mr.  Stockton's  custom  to  take  a  trolley 
as  far  as  the  Brooklyn  bridge,  and  thence  it  was  a 
pleasant  walk  to  the  office  on  Park  Row.  Gen- 
erally he  left  home  about  ten  o'clock,  thus  avoiding 
the  rush  of  traffic  in  the  earlier  hours ;  and  loitering 
a  little  along  the  way,  as  becomes  a  man  of  ideas, 
his  article  on  poetry  would  jell  in  his  mind,  and  he 
would  be  at  his  desk  a  little  after  eleven.  There  he 
would  work  until  one  o'clock  with  the  happy  con- 
centration of  those  who  enjoy  their  tasks.  At  that 
time  he  would  go  out  for  a  bite  of  lunch,  and  would 
then  be  at  his  desk  steadily  from  two  until  six> 
Dinner  at  home  was  at  seven,  and  after  that 


8  SHANDYGAFF 

he  worked  persistently  in  his  little  den  under  the 
roof  until  past  midnight. 

One  morning  in  spring  he  left  New  Utrecht  in  a 
mood  of  perplexity,  for  to-day  his  even  routine 
was  in  danger  of  interruption.  Halfway  across 
the  bridge  Stockton  paused  in  some  confusion  of 
spirit  to  look  down  on  the  shining  river  and  con- 
sider his  course. 

A  year  or  so  before  this  time,  in  gathering  copy 
for  his  poetry  articles,  he  had  first  come  across  the 
name  of  Finsbury  Verne  in  an  English  journal  at 
the  head  of  some  exquisite  verses.  From  time 
to  time  he  found  more  of  this  writer's  lyrics  in  the 
English  magazines,  and  at  length  he  had  ventured 
a  graceful  article  of  appreciation.  It  happened 
that  he  was  the  first  in  this  country  to  recognize 
Verne's  talent,  and  to  his  great  delight  he  had  one 
day  received  a  very  charming  letter  from  the  poet 
himself,  thanking  him  for  his  understanding 
criticism. 

Stockton,  though  a  shy  and  reticent  man,  had 
the  friendliest  nature  in  the  world,  and  some 
underlying  spirit  of  kinship  in  Verne's  letter 
prompted  him  to  warm  response.  Thus  began  a 
correspondence  which  was  a  remarkable  pleasure 
to  the  lonely  reviewer,  who  knew  no  literary  men,  • 
although  his  life  was  passed  among  books. 
Hardly  dreaming  that  they  would  ever  meet,  he 


SHANDYGAFF  9 

had  insisted  on  a  promise  that  if  Verne  should  ever 
visit  the  States  he  would  make  New  Utrecht  his 
headquarters.  And  now,  on  this  very  morning, 
there  had  come  a  wireless  message  via  Seagate, 
saying  that  Verne  was  on  a  ship  which  would 
dock  that  afternoon. 

The  dilemma  may  seem  a  trifling  one,  but  to 
Stockton's  sensitive  nature  it  was  gross  indeed. 
He  and  his  wife  knew  that  they  could  offer  but 
little  to  make  the  poet's  visit  charming.  New 
Utrecht,  on  the  way  to  Coney  Island,  is  not  a  likely 
perching  ground  for  poets;  the  house  was  small, 
shabby,  and  the  spare  room  had  long  ago  been 
made  into  a  workshop  for  the  two  boys,  where 
they  built  steam  engines  and  pasted  rotogravure 
pictures  from  the  Sunday  editions  on  the  walls. 
The  servant  was  an  enormous  coloured  mammy, 
with  a  heart  of  ruddy  gold,  but  in  appearance  she 
was  pure  Dahomey.  The  bathroom  plumbing 
was  out  of  order,  the  drawing-room  rug  was  fifteen 
years  old,  even  the  little  lawn  in  front  of  the  house 
needed  trimming,  and  the  gardener  would  not  be 
round  for  several  days.  And  Verne  had  given 
them  only  a  few  hours'  notice.  How  like  a  poet! 

In  his  letters  Stockton  had  innocently  boasted 
of  the  pleasant  time  they  would  have  when  the 
writer  should  come  to  visit.  He  had  spoken  of 
evenings  beside  the  fire  when  they  would  talk  for 


10  SHANDYGAFF 

hours  of  the  things  that  interest  literary  men. 
What  would  Verne  think  when  he  found  the 
hearth  only  a  gas  log,  and  one  that  had  a  peculiarly 
offensive  odour?  This  sickly  sweetish  smell  had 
become  in  years  of  intimacy  very  dear  to  Stockton, 
but  he  could  hardly  expect  a  poet  who  lived  in 
Well  Walk,  Hampstead  (O  Shades  of  Keats!),  and 
wrote  letters  from  a  London  literary  club,  to 
understand  that  sort  of  thing.  Why,  the  man 
was  a  grandson  of  Jules  Verne,  and  probably  had 
been  accustomed  to  refined  surroundings  all  his 
life.  And  now  he  was  doomed  to  plumb  the  sub- 
fuse  depths  of  New  Utrecht! 

Stockton  could  not  even  put  him  up  at  a  club,  as 
he  belonged  to  none  but  the  golf  club,  which  had  no 
quarters  for  the  entertainment  of  out-of-town 
guests.  Every  detail  of  his  home  life  was  of  the 
shabby,  makeshift  sort  which  is  so  dear  to  one's 
self  but  needs  so  much  explaining  to  outsiders. 
He  even  thought  with  a  pang  of  Lorna  Doone, 
the  fat,  plebeian  little  mongrel  terrier  which  had 
meals  with  the  family  and  slept  with  the  children 
at  night.  Verne  was  probably  used  to  staghounds 
or  Zeppelin  hounds  or  something  of  the  soift,  he 
thought  humorously.  English  poets  wear  an 
iris  halo  in  the  eyes  of  humble  American  reviewers. 
Those  godlike  creatures'  have  walked  on  Fleet 
Street,  have  bought  books  on  Paternoster  Row, 


SHANDYGAFF  11 

have  drunk  half-and-half  and  eaten  pigeon  pie  at 
the  Salutation  and  Cat,  and  have  probably  roared 
with  laughter  over  some  alehouse  jest  of  Mr. 
Chesterton. 

Stockton  remembered  the  photograph  Verne 
had  sent  him,  showing  a  lean,  bearded  face  with 
wistful  dark  eyes  against  a  background  of  old 
folios.  What  would  that  Olympian  creature  think 
of  the  drudge  of  New  Utrecht,  a  mere  reviewer 
who  sold  his  editorial  copies  to  pay  for  shag 
tobacco ! 

Well,  thought  Stockton,  as  he  crossed  the 
bridge,  rejoicing  not  at  all  in  the  splendid  towers 
of  Manhattan,  candescent  in  the  April  sun,  they 
had  done  all  they  could.  He  had  left  his  wife 
telephoning  frantically  to  grocers,  cleaning  women? 
and  florists.  He  himself  had  stopped  at  the 
poultry  market  on  his  way  to  the  trolley  to  order 
two  plump  fowls  for  dinner,  and  had  pinched 
them  with  his  nervous,  ink-stained  fingers,  as 
ordered  by  Mrs.  Stockton,  to  test  their  tender- 
ness. They  would  send  the  three  younger  chil- 
dren to  their  grandmother,  to  be  interned  there 
until  the  storm  had  blown  over;  and  Mrs.  Stock- 
ton was  going  to  do  what  she  could  to  take  down 
the  rotogravure  pictures  from  the  walls  of  what  the 
boys  fondly  called  the  Stockton  Art  Gallery.  He 
knew  that  Verne  had  children  of  his  own :  perhaps 


12  SHANDYGAFF 

he  would  be  amused  rather  than  dismayed  by  the 
incongruities  of  their  dismantled  guestroom.  Pre- 
sumably, the  poet  was  over  here  for  a  lecture  tour 
—he  would  be  entertained  and  feted  everywhere 
by  the  cultured  rich,  for  the  appreciation  which 
Stockton  had  started  by  his  modest  little  essay 
had  grown  to  the  dimension  of  a  fad. 

He  looked  again  at  the  telegram  which  had  shat- 
tered the  simple  routine  of  his  unassuming  life. 
"On  board  Celtic  dock  this  afternoon  three  o'clock 
hope  see  you.  Verne."  He  sneezed  sharply,  as 
was  his  unconscious  habit  when  nervous.  In 
desperation  he  stopped  at  a  veterinary's  office  on 
Frankfort  Street,  and  left  orders  to  have  the  doc- 
tor's assistant  call  for  Lorna  Doone  and  take  her 
away,  to  be  kept  until  sent  for.  Then  he  called 
at  a  wine  merchant's  and  bought  three  bottles  of 
claret  of  a  moderate  vintage.  Verne  had  said 
something  about  claret  in  one  of  his  playful  letters. 
Unfortunately,  the  man's  grandfather  was  a 
Frenchman,  and  undoubtedly  he  knew  all  about 
wines. 

Stockton  sneezed  so  loudly  and  so  often  at  his 
desk  that  morning  that  all  his  associates  knew 
something  was  amiss.  The  Sunday  editor,  who 
had  planned  to  borrow  fifty  cents  from  him  at 
lunch  time,  refrained  from  doing  so,  in  a  spirit  of 
pure  Christian  brotherhood.  Even  Bob  Bolles, 


SHANDYGAFF  13 

the  hundred- and-fifty-dollar-a- week  conductor  of 
"The  Electric  Chair,"  the  paper's  humorous 
column,  came  in  to  see  what  was  up.  Bob's 
"contribs"  had  been  generous  that  morning,  and 
he  was  in  unusually  good  humour  for  a  humourist. 

"What's  the  matter,  Stock,"  he  inquired  gen- 
ially, "Got  a  cold?  Or  has  George  Moore  sent  in 
a  new  novel?"' 

Stockton  looked  up  sadly  from  the  proofs  he  was 
correcting.  How  could  he  confess  his  paltry  prob- 
lem to  this  debonair  creature  who  wore  life  lightly, 
like  a  flower,  and  played  at  literature  as  he  played 
tennis,  with  swerve  and  speed?  Bolles  was  a 
bachelor,  the  author  of  a  successful  comedy,  and 
a  member  of  the  smart  literary  club  which  was 
over  the  reviewer's  horizon,  although  in  the  great 
ocean  of 'letters  the  humourist  was  no  more  than  a 
surf  bather.  Stockton  shook  his  head.  No  one 
but  a  married  man  and  an  unsuccessful  author 
could  understand  his  trouble. 

"A  touch  of  asthma,"  he  'fibbed  shyly.  "I 
always  have  it  at  this  time  of  year." 

"Come  and  have  some  lunch,"  said  the  other. 
"We'll  go  up  to  the  club  and  have  some  ale. 
That'll  put  you  on  your  feet." 

"Thanks,  ever  so  much,"  said  Stockton,  "but 
I  can't  do  it  to-day.  Got  to  make  up  my  page. 
I  tell  you  what,  though— 


14  SHANDYGAFF 

He  hesitated,  and  flushed  a  little. 

"Say  it,"  said  Bolles  kindly. 

"Verne  is  in  town  to-day;  the  English  poet,  you 
know.  Grandson  of  old  Jules  Verne.  I'm  going 
to  put  him  up  at  my  house.  I  wish  you'd  take 
him  around  to  the  club  for  lunch  some  day  while 
he's  here.  He  ought  to  meet  some  of  the  men 
there.  I've  been  corresponding  with  him  for  a 
long  time,  and  I — I'm  afraid  I  rather  promised  to 
take  him  round  there,  as  though  I  were  a  member, 
you  know." 

"Great  snakes!"  cried  Bolles.  "Verne?  the 
author  of  'Candle  -Light'?  And  you're  going  to 
put  him  up?  You  lucky  devil.  Why,  the  man's 
bigger  than  Masefield.  Take  him  to  lunch — ] 
should  say  I  willj  Why,  I'll  put  him  in  the  col- 
yum.  Both  of  you  come  round  there  to-morrow 
and  we'll  have  an  orgy.  I'll  order  larks'  tongues 
and  convolvulus  salad.  I  didn't  know  you  kne\\ 
him." 

"I  don't— yet,*'  said  Stockton.  "I'm  goin^ 
down  to  meet  his  steamer  this  afternoon." 

"Well,  that's  great  news,"  said  the  volatile 
humourist.  And  he  ran  downstairs  to  buy  the 
book  of  which  he  had  so  often  heard  but  had  nevei 
read. 

The  sight  of  Bolles'  well-cut  suit  of  tweeds  hac 
reminded  Stockton  that  he  was  still  wearing  the 


SHANDYGAFF  15 

threadbare  serge  that  had  done  duty  for  three 
winters,  and  would  hardly  suffice  for  the  honours 
to  come.  Hastily  he  blue-pencilled  his  proofs, 
threw  them  into  the  wire  basket,  and  hurried  out- 
doors to  seek  the  nearest  tailor.  He  stopped  at 
the  bank  first,  to  draw  out  fifty  dollars  for 
emergencies.  Then  he  entered  the  first  clothier's 
^hop  he  encountered  on  Nassau  Street. 

Mr.  Stockton  was  a  nervous  man,  especially  so 
in  the  crises  when  he  was  compelled  to  buy  any- 
thing so  important  as  a  suit,  for  usually  Mrs. 
Stockton  supervised  the  selection.  To-day  his 
unlucky  star  was  in  the  zenith.  His  watch 
pointed  to  close  on  two  o'clock,  and  he  was  afraid 
he  might  be  late  for  the  steamer,  which  docked 
far  uptown.  In  his  haste,  and  governed  perhaps 
by  some  subconscious  recollection  of  the  humour- 
ist's attractive  shaggy  tweeds,  he  allowed  himself 
to  be  fitted  with  an  ochre-coloured  suit  of  some 
fleecy  checked  material  grotesquely  improper  for 
his  unassuming  figure.  It  was  the  land  of  cloth 
and  cut  that  one  sees  only  in  the  windows  of 
Nassau  Street.  Happily  he  was  unaware  of  the 
enormity  of  his  offence  against  society,  and  rapidly 
transferring  his  belongings  to  the  new  pockets,  he 
paid  down  the  purchase  price  and  fled  to  the  sub- 
way. 

When  he  reached  the  pier  at  the  foot  of  Four- 


16  SHANDYGAFF 

teenth  Street  he  saw  that  the  steamer  was  still  ii 
midstream  and  it  would  be  several  minutes  befor 
she  warped  in  to  the  dock.  He  had  no  pass  fror 
the  steamship  office,  but  on  showing  his  news 
paperman's  card  the  official  admitted  him  to  th 
pier,  and  he  took  his  stand  at  the  first  cabi 
gangway,  trembling  a  little  with  nervousness,  bu 
with  a  pleasant  feeling  of  excitement  no  less.  H 
gazed  at  the  others  waiting  for  arriving  traveller 
and  wondered  whether  any  of  the  peers  c 
American  letters  had  come  to  meet  the  poet,  i 
stoutish,  neatly  dressed  gentleman  with  a  gra 
moustache  looked  like  Mr.  Ho  wells,  and  he  thrille 
again.  It  was  hardly  possible  that  he,  the  obscur 
reviewer,  was  the  only  one  who  had  been  notifie< 
of  Verne's  arrival.  That  tall,  hawk-faced  ma 
whose  limousine  was  purring  outside  must  be 
certain  publisher  he  knew  by  sight. 

What  would  these  gentlemen  say  when  the; 
learned  that  the  poet  was  to  stay  with  Kenneti 
Stockton,  in  New  Utrecht?  He  rolled  up  th 
mustard-coloured  trousers  one  more  round — the; 
were  much  too  long  for  him — and  watched  th 
great  hull  slide  along  the  side  of  the  pier  with  ; 
peculiar  tingling  shudder  that  he  had  not  fel 
since  the  day  of  his  wedding. 

He  expected  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  Fins 
bury  Verne,  for  he  was  very  familiar  with  hi 


SHANDYGAFF  17 

photograph.  As  the  passengers  poured  down  the 
slanting  gangway,  all  bearing  the  unmistakable  air 
and  stamp  of  superiority  that  marks  those  who 
have  just  left  the  sacred  soil  of  England,  he 
scanned  the  faces  with  an  eye  of  keen  regard.  To 
his  surprise  he  saw  the  gentlemen  he  had  marked 
respectively  as  Mr.  Howells  and  the  publisher 
greet  people  who  had  not  the  slightest  resemblance 
to  the  poet,  and  go  with  them  to  the  customs 
alcoves.  Traveller  after  traveller  hurried  past 
him,  followed  by  stewards  carrying  luggage; 
gradually  the  flow  of  people  thinned,  and  then 
stopped  altogether,  save  for  one  or  two  invalids 
who  were  being  helped  down  the  incline  by  nurses. 
And  still  no  sign  of  Finsbury  Verne. 

Suddenly  a  thought  struck  him.  Was  it  pos- 
sible that — the  second  class?  His  eye  brightened 
and  he  hurried  to  the  gangway,  fifty  yards  farther 
down  the  pier,  where  the  second-cabin  passengers 
were  disembarking. 

There  were  more  of  the  latter,  and  the  passage- 
way was  still  thronged.  Just  as  Stockton  reached 
the  foot  of  the  plank  a  little  man  in  green  ulster 
and  deerstalker  cap,  followed  by  a  plump  little 
woman  and  four  children  in  single  file,  each  hold- 
ing fast  to  the  one  in  front  like  Alpine  climbers, 
came  down  the  narrow  bridge,  taking  almost 
ludicrous  care  not  to  slip  on  the  cleated  boards. 


18  SHANDYGAFF 

To  his  amazement  the  reviewer  recognized  th 
dark  beard  and  soulful  eyes  of  the  poet. 

Mr.  Verne  clutched  in  rigid  arms,  not  a  roll  ( 
manuscripts,  but  a  wriggling  French  poodle,  who* 
tufted  tail  waved  under  the  poet's  chin.  Tli 
lady  behind  him,  evidently  his  wife,  as  she  dun 
steadfastly  to  the  skirt  of  his  ulster,  held  tightl 
in  the  other  hand  a  large  glass  jar  in  which  tw 
agitated  goldfish  were  swimming,  while  the  foi 
children  watched  their  parents  with  anxious  ey( 
for  the  safety  of  their  pets.  "Daddy,  look  01 
for  Ink!"'  shrilled  one  of  them,  as  the  Struggles  c 
the  poodle  very  nearly  sent  him  into  the  wat< 
under  the  ship's  side.  Two  smiling  stewards  wit 
mountainous  portmanteaux  followed  the  part; 
"Mother,  are  Castor  and  Pollux  all  right?"  crie 
the  smallest  child,  and  promptly  fell  on  his  no* 
on  the  gangway,  disrupting  the  file. 

Stockton,  with  characteristic  delicacy,  refraine 
from  making  himself  known  until  the  Vernes  ha 
recovered  from  the  embarrassments  of  leaving  tl: 
ship.  He  followed  them  at  a  distance  to  the  "  V 
section  where  they  waited  for  the  customs  e: 
animation.  With  mingled  feelings  he  saw  ihi 
Finsbury  Verne  was  no  cloud- walking  deity,  bi 
one  even  as  himself,  indifferently  clad,  shy  an 
perplexed  of  eye,  worried  with  the  comic  cares  of 
family  man.  All  his  heart  warmed  toward  tl 


SHANDYGAFF  19 

poet,  who  stood  in  his  bulging  greatcoat,  perspiring 
and  aghast  at  the  uproar  around  him.  He  shrank 
from  imagining  what  might  happen  when  he  ap- 
peared at  home  with  the  whole  family,  but  without 
hesitation  he  approached  and  introduced  himself. 

Verne's  eyes  shone  with  unaffected  pleasure  at 
the  meeting,  and  he  presented  the  reviewer  to  his 
wife  and  the  children,  two  boys  and  two  girls. 
The  two  boys,  aged  about  ten  and  eight,  im- 
mediately uttered  cryptic  remarks  which  Stock- 
ton judged  were  addressed  to  him. 

"  Castorian ! "  cried  the  larger  boy,  looking  at  the 
yellow  suit. 

"Polluxite!"  piped  the  other  in  the  same  breath. 

Mrs.  Verne,  in  some  embarrassment,  explained 
that  the  boys  were  in  the  throes  of  a  new  game 
they  had  invented  on  the  voyage.  They  had 
created  two  imaginary  countries,  named  in  honour 
of  the  goldfish,  and  it  was  now  their  whim  to  claim 
for  their  respective  countries  any  person  or  thing 
that  struck  their  fancy.  "Castoria  was  first," 
said  Mrs.  Verne,  "so  you  must  consider  yourself  a 
citizen  of  that  nation." 

Somewhat  shamefaced  at  this  sudden  honour, 
Mr.  Stockton  turned  to  the  poet.  "  You're  all 
coming  home  with  me,  aren't  you?"  he  said.  "I 
got  your  telegram  this  morning.  We'd  be  de- 
lighted to  have  you." 


20  SHANDYGAFF 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you,"  said  the  poet,  "but 
as  a  matter  of  fact  we're  going  straight  on  to  the 
country  to-morrow  morning.  My  wife  has  some 
relatives  in  Yonkers,  wherever  they  aje,  and  she 
and  the  children  are  going  to  stay  with  them. 
I've  got  to  go  up  to  Harvard  to  give  some 
lectures." 

A  rush  of  cool,  gweet  relief  bathed  Stockton's 
brow. 

"Why,  I'm  disappointed  you're  going  right  on," 
he  stammered.  "Mrs.  Stockton  and  I  were 
hoping " 

"My  dear  fellow,  we  could  never  impose  such  a 
party  on  your  hospitality,"  said  Verne.  "Per- 
haps you  can  recommend  us  to  some  quiet  hotel 
where  we  can  stay  the  night." 

Like  all  New  Yorkers,  Stockton  could  hardly 
think  of  the  name  of  any  hotel  when  asked  sud- 
denly. At  first  he  said  the  Astor  House,  and  then 
remembered  that  it  had  been  demolished  years 
before.  At  last  he  recollected  that  a  brother  of 
his  from  Indiana  had  once  stayed  at  the  Obelisk. 

After  the  customs  formalities  were  over — not 
without  embarrassment,  as  Mr.  Verne's  valise  when 
opened  displayed  several  pairs  of  bright  red  union 
suits  and  a  half -empty  bottle  of  brandy — Stockton 
convoyed  them  to  a  taxi.  Noticing  the  frayed 
sleeve  of  the  poet's  ulster  he  felt  quite  ashamed 


SHANDYGAFF  21 

of  the  aggressive  newness  of  his  clothes.  And  when 
the  visitors  whirled  away,  after  renewed  promises 
for  a  meeting  a  little  later  in  the  spring,  he  stood 
for  a  moment  in  a  kind  of  daze.  Then  he  hurried 
toward  the  nearest  telephone  booth. 

As  the  Vernes  sat  at  dinner  that  night  in  the 
Abyssinian  Room  of  the  Obelisk  Hotel,  the  poet 
said  to  his  wife:  "It  would  have  been  delightful 
to  spend  a  few  days  with  the  Stocktons." 

"My  dear,"  said  she,  "I  wouldn't  have  these 
wealthy  Americans  see 'how  shabby  we  are  for 
anything.  The  children  are  positively  in  rags, 
and  your  clothes — well,  I  don't  know  what  they'll 
think  at  Harvard.  You  know  if  this  lecture  trip 
doesn't  turn  out  well  we  shall  be  simply  bank- 
rupt." 

The  poet  sighed.  "I  believe  Stockton  has 
quite  a  charming  place  in  the  country  near  New 
York,"  he  said. 

"  That  may  be  so,"  said  Mrs.  Verne.  "  But  did 
you  ever  see  such  clothes?  He  looked  like  a 
canary." 


DON  MARQUIS 

THERE  is  nothing  more  pathetic  than  the 
case  of  the  author  who  is  the  victim  of  a 
supposedly  critical  essay.  You  hold  him 
in  the  hollow  of  your  hand.  You  may  praise  him 
for  his  humour  when  he  wants  to  be  considered  a 
serious  and  saturnine  dog.  You  may  extol  his 
songs  of  war  and  passion  when  he  yearns  to  be 
esteemed  a  light,  jovial  merry andrew  with  never  a 
care  in  the  world  save  the  cellar  plumbing.  You 
may  utterly  misrepresent  him,  and  hang  some 
albatross  round  his  neck  that  will  be  offensive  to 
him  forever.  You  may  say  that  he  hails  from 
Brooklyn  Heights  when  the  fact  is  that  he  left 
there  two  years  ago  and  now  lives  in  Port  Wash- 
ington. You  may  even  (for  instance)  call  him 
stout.  .  . 

Don  Marquis  was  born  in  1878;  reckoning  by 
tens,  '88,  '98,  '08— well,  call  it  forty.  He  is  burly, 
ruddy,  gray-haired,  and  fond  of  corn-cob  pipes, 
dark  beer,  and  sausages.  He  looks  a  careful 
blend  of  Falstaff  and  Napoleon  III.  He  has  con- 
ducted the  Sun  Dial  in  the  New  York  Evening 
Sun  since  1912.  He  stands  out  as  one  of  the 

22 


SHANDYGAFF  23 

most  penetrating  satirists  and  resonant  scoffers 
at  folderol  that  this  continent  nourishes.  He  is 
far  more  than  a  colyumist :  he  is  a  poet — a  kind  of 
Meredithian  Prometheus  chained  to  the  roar  and 
clank  of  a  Hoe  press.  He  is  a  novelist  of  Stock- 
toman  gifts,  although  unfortunately  for  us  he 
writes  the  first  half  of  a  novel  easier  than  the 
second.  And  I  think  that  in  his  secret  heart  and 
at  the  bottom  of  the  old  haircloth  round-top 
trunk  he  is  a  dramatist. 

He  good-naturedly  deprecates  that  people  praise 
"Archy  the  Vers  Libre  Cockroach"  and  clamour 
for  more;  while  "Hermione,"  a  careful  and  cut- 
ting satire  on  the  follies  of  pseudokultur  near  the 
Dewey  Arch,  elicits  only  "a  mild,  mild  smile." 
As  he  puts  it: 

A  chair  broke  down  in  the  midst  of  a  Bernard  Shaw  com- 
edy the  other  evening.  Everybody  laughed.  They  had 
been  laughing  before  from  time  to  time.  That  was  because 
it  was  a  Shaw  comedy.  But  when  the  chair  broke  they  roared. 
We  don't  blame  them  for  roaring,  but  it  makes  us  sad. 

The  purveyor  of  intellectual  highbrow  wit  and  humour 
pours  his  soul  into  the  business  of  capturing  a  few  refined, 
appreciative  grins  in  the  course  of  a  lifetime,  grins  that  come 
from  the  brain;  he  is  more  than  happy  if  once  or  twice  in  a 
generation  he  can  get  a  cerebral  chuckle— and  then  Old 
Boob  Nature  steps  in  and  breaks  a  chair  or  flings  a  fat  man 
down  on  the  ice  and  the  world  laughs  with  all  its  heart  and 
soul. 


24  SHANDYGAFF 

Don  Marquis  recognizes  as  well  as  any  one  the 
value  of  the  slapstick  as  a  mirth-provoking  instru- 
ment. (All  hail  to  the  slapstick!  it  was  well 
known  at  the  Mermaid  Tavern,  we'll  warrant.) 
But  he  prefers  the  rapier.  Probably  his  Savage 
Portraits,  splendidly  truculent  and  slashing  son- 
nets, are  among  the  finest  pieces  he  has  done., 

The  most  honourable  feature  of  Marquis's 
writing,  the  "small  thing  to  look  for  but  the  big 
thing  to  find,"  is  its  quality  of  fine  workmanship. 
The  swamis  and  prophets  of  piffle,  the  Bhan- 
dranaths  and  Fothergill  Finches  whom  he  detests, 
can  only  create  in  an  atmosphere  specially  warmed, 
purged  and  rose- watered  for  their  moods.  Mar- 
quis has  emerged  from  the  underworld  of  news- 
paper print  just  by  his  heroic  ability  to  transform 
the  commonest  things  into  tools  for  his  craft. 
Much  of  his  best  and  subtlest  work  has  been 
clacked  out  on  a  typewriter  standing  on  an  up- 
turned packing  box.  (When  the  American  Maga- 
zine published  a  picture  of  him  at  work  on  his 
packing  case  the  supply  man  of  the  Sun  got 
worried,  and  gave  him  a  regular  desk.)  News- 
paper men  are  a  hardy  race.  Who  but  a  man 
inured  to  the  squalour  of  a  newspaper  office  would 
dream  of  a  cockroach  as  a  hero?  Archy  was  born 
in  the  old  Sun  building,  now  demolished,  once 
known  as  Vermin  Castle. 


SHANDYGAFF  25 

"Publishing  a  volume  of  verse,"  Don  has 
plaintively  observed,  "is  like  dropping  a  rose- 
petal  down  the  Grand  Canyon  and  waiting  to 
hear  the  echo."  Yet  if  the  petal  be  authentic 
rose,  the  answer  will  surely  come.  Some  poets 
seek  to  raft  oblivion  by  putting  on  frock  coats 
and  reading  their  works  aloud  to  the  women's 
clubs.  Don  Marquis  has  no  taste  for  that  sort 
of  mummery.  But  little  by  little  his  potent, 
yeasty  verses,  fashioned  from  the  roaring  loom  of 
every  day,  are  winning  their  way  into  circulation. 
Any  reader  who  went  to  Dreams  and  Dust  (poems, 
published  October,  1915)  expecting  to  find  light 
and  waggish  laughter,  was  on  a  blind  quest.  In 
that  book  speaks  the  hungry  and  visionary  s'oul 
of  this  man,  quick  to  see  beauty  and  grace  in 
common  things,  quick  to  question  the  answerless 
face  of  life- 
Still  mounts  the  dream  on  shining  pinion, 

Still  broods  the  dull  distrust; 
Which  shall  have  ultimate  dominion, 
Dream,  or  dust? 

Heavy  men  are  light  on  their  feet :  it  takes  stout 
poets  to  write  nimble  verses  (Mr.  Chesterton,  for 
instance).  Don  Marquis  has  something  of  Dob- 
sonian  cunning  to  set  his  musings  to  delicate,  aus- 
tere music.  He  can  turn  a  rondeau  or  a  triolet  as 


26  SHANDYGAFF 

gracefully  as  a  paying  teller  can  roll  Durham 
cigarettes. 

How  neat  this  is : 

TO  A  DANCING  DOLL 

Formal,  quaint,  precise,  and  trim, 
You  begin  your  steps  demurely — 

There's  a  spirit  almost  prim 
In  the  feet  that  move  so  surely, 

So  discreetly,  to  the  chime 

Of  the  music  that  so  sweetly 
Marks  the  time. 

But  the  chords  begin  to  tinkle 
Quicker, 

And  your  feet  they  flash  and  flicker- 
Twinkle!— 

Flash  and  flutter  to  a  tricksy 
Fickle  meter; 

And  you  foot  it  like  a  pixie — 
Only  fleeter! 

Not  our  current,  dowdy 

Things— 
"Turkey  trots"  and  rowdy 

Flings — 

For  they  made  you  overseas 
In  politer  times  than  these 
In  an  age  when  grace  could  please, 

Ere  St.  Vitus 

Clutched  and  shook  us,  spine  and  knees; 
Loosed  a  plague  of  jerks  to  smite  us! 


SHANDYGAFF  27 

But  Marquis  is  more  than  the  arbiter  of  dainty 
elegances  in  rhyme:  he  sings  and  celebrates  a 
robust  world  where  men  struggle  upward  from  the 
slime  and  discontent  leaps  from  star  to  star.  The 
evolutionary  theme  is  a  favourite  with  him:  the 
grand  pageant  of  humanity  groping  from  Pilt- 
down  to  Beacon  Hill,  winning  in  a  million  years 
two  precarious  inches  of  forehead.  Much  more 
often  than  F.  P.  A.,  who  used  to  be  his  brother 
colyumist  in  Manhattan,  he  dares  to  disclose  the 
real  earnestness  that  underlies  his  chaff. 

I  suppose  that  the  conductor  of  a  daily  humor- 
ous column  stands  in  the  hierarchy  of  unthanked 
labourers  somewhere  between  a  plumber  and  a 
submarine  trawler.  Most  of  the  available  wheezes 
were  pulled  long  ago  by  Plato  in  the  Republic 
(not  the  New  Republic)  or  by  Samuel  Butler  in 
his  Notebooks.  Contribs  come  valiantly  to  hand 
with  a  barrowful  of  letters  every  day — ("The  rav- 
ings fed  him"  as  Don  captioned  some  contrib's 
quip  about  Simeon  Stylites  living  on  a  column); 
but  nevertheless  the  direct  and  alternating  current 
must  be  turned  on  six  times  a  week.  His  jocular 
exposal  of  the  colyumist's  trade  secret  compares  it 
to  the  boarding-house  keeper's  rotation  of  crops : 

MONDAY.    Take  up  an  idea  in  a  serious  way.     (ROAST  BEEF.) 
TUESDAY.     Some  one  writes  us  a  letter  about  Monday's 
serious  idea.     (COLD  ROAST  BEEF.) 


28  SHANDYGAFF 

WEDNESDAY.  Josh  the  idea  we  took  up  seriously  on  M onday. 
(BEEF  STEW.) 

THURSDAY.  Some  one  takes  issue  with  us  for  Wednesday's 
josh  of  Monday's  serious  idea.  (BEEFSTEAK  PIE.) 

FRIDAY.  We  become  a  little  pensive  about  our  Wednesday's 
josh  of  Monday's  serious  idea — there  creeps  into  our  copy 
a  more  subdued,  sensible  note,  as  if  we  were  acknowledging 
that  after  all,  the  main  business  of  We  is  not  mere  hare- 
brained word-play.  (HASH  OR  CROQUETTES  WITH  GREEN 
PEPPERS.) 

SATURDAY.  Spoof  the  whole  thing  again,  especially  spoofing 
ourself  for  having  ever  taken  it  seriously.  (BEEF  Soup 
WITH  BARLEY  IN  IT.) 

SUNDAY.  There  isn't  any  evening  paper  on  Sunday.  That 
is  where  we  have  the  advantage  of  the  boarding-house 
keepers. 

But  the  beauty  of  Don's  cuisine  is  that  the 
beef  soup  with  barley  always  tastes  as  good  as,  or 
even  better  than,  the  original  roast.  His  dry 
battery  has  generated  in  the  past  few  years  a 
dozen  features  with  real  voltage — the  Savage 
Portraits,  Hermione,  Archy  the  Vers  Libre  Cock- 
roach, the  Aptronymic  Scouts,  French  Without  a 
Struggle,  Suggestions  to  Popular  Song  Writers, 
Our  Own  Wall  Mottoes,  and  the  sequence  of 
Prefaces  (to  an  Almanac,  a  Mileage  Book,  The 
Plays  of  Euripides,  a  Diary,  a  Book  of  Fishhooks, 
etc.).  Some  of  Marquis's  most  admirable  and 
delicious  fooling  has  been  poured  into  these  Pref- 


SHANDYGAFF  29 

aces:  I  hope  that  he  will  put  them  between 
book-covers. 

One  day  I  got  a  letter  from  a  big  engineering 
firm  in  Ohio,  enclosing  a  number  of  pay-envelopes 
(empty).  They  wanted  me  to  examine  the 
aphorisms  and  orisonswettmardenisms  they  had 
been  printing  on  their  weekly  envelopes,  for  the 
inspiration  and  peptonizing  of  their  employees. 
They  had  been  using  quotations  from  Emerson, 
McAdoo,  and  other  panhellenists,  and  had  run 
out  of  "sentiments."  They  wanted  suggestions 
as  to  where  they  could  find  more. 

I  advised  them  to  get  in  touch  with  Don  Mar- 
quis. I  don't  know  whether  they  did  so  or  not; 
but  Don's  epigrams  and  bon  mots  would  adorn 
any  pay-envelope  anthology.  Some  of  his  casual 
comments  on  whiskey  would  do  more  to  discourage 
the  decanterbury  pilgrims  than  a  bushel  of  tracts. 

By  the  time  a  bartender  knows  what  drink  a  man  will  have 
before  he  orders,  there  is  little  else  about  him  worth  knowing. 

If  you  go  to  sleep  while  you  are  loafing,  how  are  you  going 
to  know  you  are  loafing? 

Because  majorities  are  often  wrong  it  does  not  follow  that 
minorities  are  always  right. 

Young  man,  if  she  asks  you  if  you  like  her  hair  that  way, 
beware.  The  woman  has  already  committed  matrimony  in 
her  own  heart. 

I  am  tired  of  being  a  promising  young  man.  I've  been 
a  promising  young  man  for  twenty  years. 


30  SHANDYGAFF 

In  most  of  Don  Marquis's  japes,  a  still  small  voice 
speaks  in  the  mirthquake: 

If  you  try  too  hard  to  get  a  thing,  you  don't  get  it. 

If  you  sweat  and  strain  and  worry  the  other  ace  will  not 
come — the  little  ball  will  not  settle  upon  the  right  number 
or  the  proper  colour — the  girl  will  marry  the  other  man — the 
public  will  cry,  Bedamned  to  him !  he  can't  write  anyhow ! — 
the  cosmos  will  refuse  its  revelations  of  divinity — the  Welsh 
rabbit  will  be  stringy — you  will  find  there  are  not  enough 
rhymes  in  the  language  to  finish  your  ballade — the  primrose 
by  the  river's  brim  will  be  only  a  hayfever  carrier — and  your 
fountain  pen  will  dribble  ink  upon  your  best  trousers. 

But  Don  Marquis's  mind  has  two  yolks  (to  use 
one  of  his  favourite  denunciations) .  In  addition  to 
ihese  comic  or  satiric  shadows,  the  gnomon  of  his 
Sun  Dial  may  be  relied  on  every  now  and  then  to 
register  a  clear-cut  notation  of  the  national  mind 
and  heart.  For  instance  this,  just  after  the 
United  States  severed  diplomatic  relations  with 
Germany : 

This  Beast  we  know,  whom  time  brings  to  his  last  rebirth 

Bull-thewed,  iron-boned,  cold-eyed  and  strong  as  Earth.     .     t 

As  Earth,  who  spawned  and  lessoned  him, 

Yielded  her  earthy  secrets,  gave  him  girth, 

Armoured  the  skull  and  braced  the  heavy  limb — 

Who  frowned  above  him,  proud  and  grim, 

While  he  sucked  from  her  salty  dugs  the  lore 

Of  fire  and  steel  and  stone  and  war: 

She  taught  brute  facts,  brute  might,  but  not  the  worth 


SHANDYGAFF  31 

Of  spirit,  honour  and  clean  mirth     .... 
His  shape  is  Man,  his  mood  is  Dinosaur.  . 

Up  from  the  wild  red  Welter  of  the  past 
Foaming  he  comes:  let  this  rush  be  his  last. 

Too  patient  we  have  been,  thou  knowest,  God,  thou  knowest. 

We  have  been  slow  as  doom.     Our  dead 

Of  yesteryear  lie  on  the  ocean's  bed — 

We  have  denied  each  pleading  ghost — 

We  have  been  slow :     God,  make  us  sure. 

We  have  been  slow.     Grant  we  endure 

Unto  the  uttermost,  the  uttermost. 

Did  our  slow  mood,  O  God,  with  thine  accord? 
Then  weld  our  diverse  millions,  Lord, 
Into  one  single  swinging  sword. 

I  have  been  combing  over  the  files  of  the  Sun 
Dial,  and  it  is  disheartening  to  see  these  deposits 
of  pearl  and  pie-crust,  this  sediment  of  fine  mind, 
buried  full  fathom  five  in  the  yellowing  archives 
of  a  newspaper.  I  thought  of  De  Quincey's  fa- 
mous utterance  about  the  press : 

Worlds  of  fine  thinking  lie  buried  in  that  vast  abyss,  never 
to  be  disentombed  or  restored  to  human  admiration.  Like 
the  sea,  it  has  swallowed  treasures  without  end,  that  no 
diving-bell  will  bring  up  again. 

Greatly  as  we  cherish  the  Sun  Dial,  we  are 
jealous  of  it  for  sapping  all  its  author's  time  and 


32  SHANDYGAFF 

calories.  No  writer  in  America  has  greater  or 
more  meaty,  stalwart  gifts.  Don,  we  cry,  spend 
less  time  stoking  that  furnace  out  in  Port  Wash- 
ington, and  more  on  your  novels! 

There  is  no  more  convincing  proof  of  the  success 
of  the  Sun  Dial  than  the  roster  of  its  contributors. 
Some  of  the  most  beautiful  lyrics  of  the  past  few 
years  have  been  printed  there  (I  think  partic- 
ularly of  two  or  three  by  Padraic  Colum).  In 
this  ephemeral  column  of  a  daily  newspaper  some 
of  the  rarest  singers  and  keenest  wits  of  the  time 
have  been  glad  to  exhibit  their  wares,  without 
pay  of  course.  It  would  be  impossible  to  give  a 
complete  list,  but  among  them  are  William  Rose 
Benet,  Clinton  Scollard,  Edith  M.  Thomas, 
Benjamin  De  Casseres,  Gelett  Burgess,  Georgia 
Pangborn,  Charles  Hanson  Towne,  Clement  Wood. 

But  the  tragedy  of  the  colyumist's  task  is  that 
the  better  he  does  it  the  harder  it  becomes. 
People  simply  will  not  leave  him  alone.  All  day 
long  they  drop  into  his  office,  or  call  him  up  on  the 
phone  in  the  hope  of  getting  into  the  column. 
Poor  Don !  he  has  become  an  institution  down  on 
Nassau  Street:  whatever  hour  of  the  day  you  call, 
you  will  find  his  queue  there  chivvying  him.  He 
is  too  gracious  to  throw  them  out:  his  only  expe- 
dient is  to  take  them  over  to  the  gin  cathedral 
across  the  street  and  buy  them  a  drink.  Lately 


SHANDYGAFF  33 

the  poor  wretch  has  had  to  write  his  Dial  out  in 
the  pampas  of  Long  Island,  bringing  it  in  with  him 
in  the  afternoon,  in  order  to  get  it  done  undis- 
turbed. How  many  times  I  have  sworn  never  to 
bother  him  again!  And  yet,  when  one  is  passing 
in  that  neighbourhood,  the  temptation  is  irresis- 
tible. ...  I  dare  say  Ben  Jonson  had  the 
same  trouble.  Of  course  someone  ought  to  en- 
dow Don  and  set  him  permanently  at  the  head 
of  a  chophouse  table,  presiding  over  a  kind  of 
Mermaid  coterie  of  robust  wits.  He  is  a  master 
of  the  tavernacular. 

He  is  a  versatile  cove.  Philosopher,  satirist, 
burlesquer,  poet,  critic,  and  novelist.  Perhaps  the 
three  critics  in  this  country  whose  praise  is  best 
worth  having,  and  least  easy  to  win,  would  be 
Marquis,  Strunsky,  and  O.  W.  Firkins.  And  I 
think  that  the  three  leading  poets  male  in  this 
country  to-day  are  Marquis,  William  Rose  Benet, 
and  (perhaps)  Vachel  Lindsay.  Of  course  Don 
Marquis  has  an  immense  advantage  over  Will 
Benet  in  his  stoutness.  Will  had  to  feed  up  on 
honey  and  candied  apricocks  and  mares'  milk  for 
months  before  they  would  admit  him  to  the  army. 

Hermione  and  her  little  group  of  "Serious 
Thinkers"  have  attained  the  dignity  of  book 
publication,  and  now  stand  on  the  shelf  beside 
"Danny's  Own  Story"  and  "The  Cruise  of  the 


34  SHANDYGAFF 

Jasper  B."  This  satire  on  the  azure-pedalled 
coteries  of  Washington  Square  has  perhaps 
received  more  publicity  than  any  other  of  Mar- 
quis's writings,  but  of  all  Don's  drolleries  I  reserve 
my  chief  affection  for  Archy.  The  cockroach,  en- 
dowed by  some  freak  of  transmigration  with  the 
shining  soul  of  a  vers  libre  poet,  is  a  thoroughly 
Marquisian  whimsy.  I  make  no  apology  for  quot- 
ing this  prince  of  blattidae  at  some  length.  Many 
a  commuter,  opening  his  evening  paper  on  the 
train,  looks  first  of  all  to  see  if  Archy 
is  in  the  Dial.  I  love  Archy  because 
there  seems  to  me  something  thoroughly  racial 
and  native  and  American  about  him.  Can  you 
imagine  him,  for  instance,  in  Punch?  His  author 
has  never  told  us  which  one  of  the  vers  libre  poets 
it  is  whose  soul  has  emigrated  into  Archy,  but  I 
feel  sure  it  is  not  Ezra  Pound  or  any  of  the  expat- 
riated eccentrics  who  lisp  in  odd  numbers  in  the 
King's  Road,  Chelsea.  Could  it  be  Amy  Lowell? 
Perhaps  it  should  be  explained  that  Archy's 
carelessness  as  to  punctuation  and  capitals  is  not 
mere  ostentation,  but  arises  from  the  fact  that  he 
is  not  strong  enough  to  work  the  shift  key  of  his 
typewriter.  Ingenious  readers  of  the  Sun  Dial 
have  suggested  many  devices  to  make  this  pos- 
sible, but  none  that  seem  feasible  to  the  roach 
himself. 


SHANDYGAFF 


35 


The  Argument:  Archy,  the  vers  libre  cock- 
roach, overhears  a  person  with  whiskers  and 
dressed  in  the  uniform  of  a  butler  in  the  British 
Navy,  ask  a  German  waiter  if  the  pork  pie  is 
built.  Ja,  Ja,  replies  the  waiter.  Archy's  sus- 
picions are  awakened,  and  he  climbs  into  the*pork 
pie  through  an  air  hole,  and  prepares  his  soul  for 
parlous  times.  The  naval  butler  takes  the  pie 
on  board  a  launch,  and  Archy,  watching  through 
one  of  the  portholes  of  the  pastry,  sees  that  they 
are  picked  up  by  a  British  cruiser  "an  inch  or  two 
outside  the  three-mile  line."  (This  was  in  neutral 
days,  remember.)  Archy  continues  the  narrative, 
in  lower  case  agate: 


it  is  cuthbert  with  the  pork  pie  the 
captain  has  been  longing  for  said  a  voice 
and  on  every  side 

rang  shouts  of  the  pie  the  pie  the  cap- 
tains pie  has  come  at  last  and  a  salute 
of  nineteen 

guns  was  fired  the  pie  was  carried  at 
once  to  the 

captains  mess  room  where  the  captain 
a  grizzled  veteran  sat  with 
knife  and  fork  in  hand  and  serviette 
tucked 

under  his  chin  i  knew  cried  the  captain 
that  if  there  was  a 

pork  pie  in  america  my  faithful  cuthbert 
v/ould 

find  it  for  me  the  butler  bowed  and  all 
the 

ships  officers  pulled  up  their  chairs 
to  the 

table  with  a  rasping  sound  you  may 
serve  it  honest 

cuthbert   said  the   captain   impatiently 
and  the  butler  broke  a 
hole  in  the  top  crust  he  touched  a  hidden 
mechanism  for 

immediately  something  right  under  me 
began  to 

go  tick  tock  tick  tock  tick  tock  what  "is 
that  noise  captain  said  the  larboard 
mate  only  the  patent  log 


clicking  off  the  knots  said  the  butler 

it  needs  oiling  again  but  * 

cuthbert  said  the  captain  why  are  you 

so 

nervous  and  what  means  that  flush  upon 

your  face 

that   flush  your  honor  is   chicken   pox 

said  cuthbert  i  am 

subject  to  sudden  attacks  of  it 

unhand  that  pie  cried  the  ships  surgeon 

leaping  to  his  feet 

arrest  that  butler  he  is  a  teuton  spy 

that  is  not  chicken  pox  at  all  it  is  ger- 

man  measles 

ha  ha  cried  the  false  butler  the  ship  is 

doomed  there  is  a  clock  work  bomb  in 

this  pie  my  name 

is  not  cuthbert  it  is  friedrich  and  he 

leaped 

through  a  port  into  the  sea  his  blonde 

side  whiskers 

which  were  false  falling  off  as  he  did  so 

ha  ha  rang  his 

mocking  laughter  from  the  ocean  as  he 

pulled  shoreward  with 

long  strokes  your  ship  is  doomed  my  god 

said  the 

senior  boatswain  what  shall  we  do  stop 

the 

clock  ordered  the  captain  but  i  had  aJ' 

ready  done  so  i 


36  SHANDYGAFF 

braced  my  head  against  the  hour  hand  and  gave  me  a  hypodermic  of  some  pow- 

and  my  feet  erful  east 

against  the  minute  hand  and  stopped  the  indian  drug  which  stiffened  me  like  a 

me  'hanism  the  captain  cataleptic  but  i 

drew  his  sword  and  pried  off  all  the  top  could  still  see  and  hear  for  days  and 

crust  gentlemen  days  a  council 

he  said  yonder  cockroach  has  saved  the  of  war  was  held  about  me  every  after- 
ship  noon  and  wireless 

let  us  throw  the  pie  overboard  and  steam  reports  sent  to  london  save   the  cock- 
rapidly  away  from  roach  even  if 

it  advised  the  starboard  ensign  you  lose  the  ship  wirelessed  the  adiuir- 

not  so  not  so  cried  the  captain  yon  gal-  alty  england  must 

lant  cockroach  stand  by  the  smaller  nations  and  every 

must  not  perish  so  gratitude  is  a  tradi-  hour  the 

tion  of  the  surgeon  gave   me   another  hypodermic 

british  navy  i  would  sooner  perish  with  at  the  end 

him  than  of  four  weeks  the  cabin  boy  who  had 

desert  him  all  the  time  the  strain  was  been 

getting  thinking   deeply  all  the  time  stggested 

worse  on  me  if  my  feet  slipped  the  clock  that  a  plug  of 

would  start  again  wood  be  inserted  in  my  place  which  was 

and  all   would  be  lost  beads  of  sweat  done 

rolled   down   my   forehead   and   almost  and   i   fell   to   the   deck   well   nigh   ex- 
blinded  me  something  hausted  the  next 

must  be  done  quick  said  the  first  assist-  day  i  was  set  on  shore  in   the  captains 

ant  captain  the  gig  and 

insect  is  losing  his  rigidity  wait  said  the  here  i  am. 
surgeon  archy 


So  far  as  I  know,  America  has  made  just  two 
entirely  original  contributions  to  the  world's  types 
of  literary  and  dramatic  art.  These  are  the 
humorous  colyum  and  the  burlesque  show.  The 
saline  and  robust  repartee  of  the  burlicue  is 
ancient  enough  in  essence,  but  it  is  compounded 
into  a  new  and  uniquely  American  mode,  joy- 
ously flavoured  with  Broadway  garlic.  The  news- 
paper colyum,  too,  is  a  native  product.  Whether 
Ben  Franklin  or  Eugene  Field  invented  it,  it  bears 
the  image  and  superscription  of  America. 

And  using  the  word  ephemeral  in  its  strict  sense, 
Don  Marquis  is  unquestionably  the  cleverest  of  our 
ephemeral  philosophers.  This  nation  suffers  a 
good  deal  from  lack  of  humour  in  high  places : 


SHANDYGAFF  37 

our  Great  Pachyderms  have  all  Won  their  Way 
to  the  Top  by  a  Resolute  Struggle.  But  Don 
has  just  chuckled  and  gone  on  refusing  to  answer 
letters  or  fill  out  Mr.  Purinton's  blasphemous 
efficiency  charts  or  join  the  Poetry  Society  or 
attend  community  masques.  And  somehow  all 
these  things  seem  to  melt  away,  and  you  look 
round  the  map  and  see  Don  Marquis  taking  up 
all  the  scenery.  .  .  .  He  has  such  an  oecu- 
menical kind  of  humour.  It's  just  as  true  in 
Brooklyn  as  it  is  in  the  Bronx. 

He  is  at 'his  best  when  he  takes  up  some  philo- 
sophic dilemma,  or  some  quaint  abstraction  (viz., 
Certainty,  Predestination,  Idleness,  Uxoricide,  Pro- 
hibition, Compromise,  or  Cornutation)  and  sets 
the  idea  spinning.  Beginning  slowly,  carelessly,  in 
a  deceptive,  offhand  manner,  he  lets  the  toy  revolve 
as  it  will.  Gradually  the  rotation  accelerates; 
faster  and  faster  he  twirls  the  thought  (sometimes 
losing  a  few  spectators  whose  centripetal  powers 
are  not  stanch  enough)  until,  chuckling,  he  holds 
up  the  flashing,  shimmering  conceit,  whirling 
at  top  speed  and  ejaculating  sparks.  What  is  so 
beautiful  as  a  rapidly  revolving  idea?  Marquis's 
mind  is  like  a  gyroscope:  the  faster  it  spins,  the 
steadier  it  is.  There  are  laws  of  dynamics  in 
colyums  just  as  anywhere  else. 

What  is  there  in  the  nipping  air  of  Galesburg, 


38  SHANDYGAFF 

Illinois,  that  turns  the  young  sciolists  of  Knox 
College  toward  the  rarefied  ethers  of  literature? 
S.  S.  McClure,  John  Phillips,  Ralph  Waldo  Trine, 
Don  Marquis — are  there  other  Knox  men  in  the 
game,  too?  Marquis  was  studying  at  Galesburg 
about  the  time  of  the  Spanish  War.  He  has 
worked  on  half  a  dozen  newspapers,  and  assisted 
Joel  Chandler  Harris  in  editing  "Uncle  Remus's 
Magazine."  But  let  him  tell  his  biography  in  his 
own  words: 

Born  July  29,  1878,  at  Walnut,  Bureau  Co.,  Ill,  a  mem- 
ber'of  the  Republican  party. 

My  father  was  a  physician,  and  I  had  all  the  diseases  of  the 
time  and  place  free  of  charge. 

Nothing  further  happened  to  me  until,  in  the  summer  of 
1896,  I  left  the  Republican  party  to  follow  the  Peerless 
Leader  to  defeat. 

In  1900  I  returned  to  the  Republican  party  to  accept  a 
position  in  the  Census  Bureau,  at  Washington,  D.  C.  This 
position  I  filled  for  some  months  in  a  way  highly  satisfactory 
to  the  Government  in  power.  It  is  particularly  gratifying 
to  me  to  remember  that  one  evening,  after  I  had  worked 
unusually  hard  at  the  Census  Office,  the  late  President 
McKinley  himself  nodded  and  smiled  to  me  as  I  passed 
through  the  White  House  grounds  on  my  way  home  from  toil. 
He  had  heard  of  my  work  that  day,  I  had  no  doubt,  and  this 
was  his  way  of  showing  me  how  greatly  he  appreciated  it. 

Nevertheless,  shortly  after  President  McKinley  paid  this 
public  tribute  to  the  honesty,  efficiency  and  importance  of 
my  work  in  the  Census  Office,  I  left  the  Republican  party 


SHANDYGAFF  39 

again,  and  accepted  a  position  as  reporter  on  a  Washington 
paper. 

Upon  entering  the  newspaper  business  all  the  troubles  of 
my  earlier  years  disappeared  as  if  by  magic,  and  I  have 
livsd  the  contented,  peaceful,  unworried  life  of  the  average 
newspaper  man  ever  since. 

There  is  little  more  to  tell.  In  1916  I  again  returned  to  the 
Republican  party.  This  time  it  was  for  the  express  purpose 
of  voting  against  Mr.  Wilson.  Then  Mr.  Hughes  was 
nominated,  and  I  left  the  Republican  party  again. 

This  is  the  outline  of  my  life  in  its  relation  to  the  times  in 
which  I  live.  For  the  benefit  of  those  whose  curiosity  extends 
to  more  particular  details,  I  add  a  careful  pen-picture  of 
myself. 

It  seems  more  modest,  somehow,  to  put  it  in  the  third 
person : 

Height,  5  feet  10^  inches;  hair,  dove-coloured;  scar  on  little 
finger  of  left  hand;  has  assured  carriage,  walking  boldly  into 
good  hotels  and  mixing  with  patrons  on  terms  of  equality; 
weight,  200  pounds;  face  slightly  asymmetrical,  but  not 
definitely  criminal  in  type;  loathes  Japanese  art,  but  likes 
beefsteak  and  onions;  wears  No.  8  shoe;  fond  of  Francis  Thomp- 
son's poems;  inside  seam  of  trousers,  32  inches;  imitates  cats, 
dogs  and  barnyard  animals  for  the  amusement  of  young 
children;  eyetooth  in  right  side  of  upper  jaw  missing;  has 
always  been  careful  to  keep  thumb  prints  from  possession 
of  police;  chest  measurement,  42  inches,  varying  with  respira- 
tion; sometimes  wears  glasses,  but  usually  operates  undis- 
guised; dislikes  the  works  of  Rabindranath  Tagore;  corn  on 
little  toe  of  right  foot;  superstitious,  especially  with  regard 
to  psychic  phenomena;  eyes,  blue;  does  not  use  drugs  nor 
read  his  verses  to  women's  clubs;  ruddy  complexion;  no 
photograph  in  possession  of  police;  garrulous  and  argumen- 


40  SHANDYGAFF 

tative;  prominent  cheek  bones;  avoids  Bohemian  society, 
so-called,  and  has  never  been  in  a  thieves'  kitchen,  a  broker's 
office  nor  a  class  of  short-story  writing;  wears  17-inch  collar; 
waist  measurement  none  of  your  business;  favourite  disease, 
hypochondria;  prefers  the  society  of  painters,  actors,  writers, 
architects,  preachers,  sculptors,  publishers,  editors,  musi- 
cians, among  whom  he  often  succeeds  in  insinuating  him- 
self, avoiding  association  with  crooks  and  reformers  as 
much  as  possible;  walks  with  rapid  gait;  mark  of  old  fracture 
on  right  shin;  cuffs  on  trousers,  and  coat  cut  loose,  with 
plenty  of  room  under  the  arm  pits;  two  hip  pockets;  dislikes 
Rochefort  cheese,  "Tom  Jones,"  Wordsworth's  poetry, 
absinthe  cocktails,  most  musical  comedy,  public  banquets, 
physical  exercise,  Billy  Sunday,  steam  heat,  toy  dogs,  poets 
who  wear  their  souls,  outside,  organized  charity,  magazine 
covers,  and  the  gas  company;  prominent  callouses  on  two 
fingers  of  right  hand  prevent  him  being  expert  pistol  shot; 
belt  straps  on  trousers;  long  upper  lip;  clean  shaven;  shaggy 
eyebrows;  affects  soft  hats;  smile,  one-sided;  no  gold  fillings 
in  teeth;  has  served  six  years  of  indeterminate  sentence  in 
Brooklyn,  with  no  attempt  to  escape,  but  is  reported  to 
have  friends  outside;  voice,  husky;  scar  above  the  forehead 
concealed  by  hah*;  commonly  wears  plain  gold  ring  on  little 
finger  of  left  hand;  dislikes  prunes,  tramp  poets  and  imita- 
tions of  Kipling;  trousers  cut  loose  over  hips  and  seat ;  would 
likely  come  along  quietly  if  arrested. 

I  would  fail  utterly  in  this  rambling  anatomy 
if  I  did  not  insist  that  Don  Marquis  regards  his 
column  not  merely  as  a  soapslide  but  rather  as  a 
cudgelling  ground  for  sham  and  hypocrisy.  He 
lias  something  of  the  quick  Stevensonian  instinct 


SHANDYGAFF  41 

for  the  moral  issue,  and  the  Devil  not  infrequently 
winces  about  the  time  the  noon  edition  of  the 
Evening  Sun  comes  from  the  press.  There  is  no 
mail  quicker  to  bonnet  a  fallacy  or  drop  the  acid 
just  where  it  will  disinfect.  For  instance,  this 
comment. on  some  bolshevictory  in  Russia: 

A  kind  word  was  recently  seen,  on  one  of  the  principal 
streets  of  Petrograd,  attempting  to  butter  a  parsnip. 

For  the  plain  man  who  shies  at  surplice  and 
stole,  the  Sun  Dial  is  a  very  real  pulpit,  whence, 
amid  excellent  banter,  he  hears  much  that  is 
purging  and  cathartic  in  a  high  degree.  The 
laughter  of  fat  men  is  a  ringing  noble  music,  and 
Don  Marquis,  like  Friar  Tuck,  deals  texts  and 
fisticuffs  impartially.  What  an  archbishop  of 
Canterbury  he  would  have  made!  He  is  a  burly 
and  bonny  dominie,  and  his  congregation  rarely 
miss  the  point  of  the  sermon.  We  cannot  close 
better  than  by  quoting  part  of  his  Colyumist's 
Prayer  in  which  he  admits  us  somewhere  near 
the  pulse  of  the  machine: 

I  pray  Thee,  make  my  colyum  read, 
And  give  me  thus  my  daily  bread. 
Endow  me,  if  Thou  grant  me  wit, 
Likewise  with  sense  to  mellow  it. 
Save  me  from  feeling  so  much  hate 
My  food  will  not  assimilate; 


42  SHANDYGAFF 

Open  mine  eyes  that  I  may  see 

Thy  world  with  more  of  charity, 

And  lesson  me  in  good  intents 

And  make  me  friend  of  innocence.     .     .     . 

Make  me  (sometimes  at  least)  discreet; 

Help  me  to  hide  my  self-conceit, 

And  give  me  courage  now  and  then 

To  be  as  dull  as  are  most  men. 

And  give  me  readers  quick  to  see 

When  I  am  satirizing  Me.     .     .     . 

Grant  that  my  virtues  may  atone 

For  some  small  vices  of  mine  own. 

And  it  is  thoroughly  characteristic  of  Don 
Marquis  that  he  follows  his  prayer  with  this 
comment: 

People,  when  they  pray,  usually  pray  not  for  what  they 
really  want — and  intend  to  have  if  they  can  get  it — but  for 
what  they  think  the  Creator  wants  them  to  want.  We  made 
a  certain  attempt  to  be  sincere  in  the  above  verses;  but  even 
at  that  no  doubt  a  lot  of  affectation  crept  in. 


THE  ART  OF  WALKING 

Away  with  the  stupid  adage  about  a  man  being  as  old  as  his 

arteries ! 
He  is  as  old  as  his  calves — his  garteries.     ... 

— Meditations  of  Andrew  McGill. 

^  •  ^HERE  was  fine  walking  on  the  hills  in  the 
•;      direction  of  the  sea." 

JL  This  heart-stirring  statement,  which  I 

find  in  an  account  of  the  life  of  William  and 
Dorothy  Wordsworth  when  they  inhabited  a 
quiet  cottage  near  Crewkerne  in  Dorset,  reminds 
me  how  often  the  word  "walking"  occurs  in  any 
description  of  WTordsworth's  existence.  De 
Quincey  assures  us  that  the  poet's  props  were  very 
ill  shapen— "they  were  pointedly  condemned  by 
all  female  connoisseurs  in  legs" — but  none  the  less 
he  was  princeps  arte  ambulandi.  Even  had  he 
lived  to-day,  when  all  our  roads  are  barbarized  by 
exploding  gasoline  vapours,  I  do  not  think  Words- 
worth would  have  flivvered.  Of  him  the  Opium 
Eater  made  the  classic  pronouncement:  "I  cal- 
culate that  with  these  identical  legs  W.  must  have 
traversed  a  distance  of  175,000  to  180,000  English 

43 


44  SHANDYGAFF 

miles — a  mode  of  exertion  which,  to  him,  stood 
in  the  stead  of  alcohol  and  all  other  stimulants 
whatsoever  to  the  animal  spirits;  to  which, 
indeed,  he  was  indebted  for  a  life  of  unclouded 
happiness,  and  we  for  much  of  what  is  most  ex- 
cellent in  his  writings." 

A  book  that  says  anything  about  walking  has 
a  ready  passage  to  my  inmost  heart.  The  best 
books  are  always  those  that  set  down  with  "amor- 
ous precision"  the  satisfying  details  of  human 
pilgrimage.  How  one  sympathizes  with  poor 
Pepys  in  his  outburst  (April  30,  1663)  about  a 
gentleman  who  seems  to  have  been  "Always 
Taking  the  Joy  Out  of  Life" : 

Lord !  what  a  stir  Stankes  makes,  with  his  being  crowded 
in  the  streets,  and  wearied  in  walking  in  London,  and  would 
not  be  wooed  to  go  to  a  play,  nor  to  Whitehall,  or  to  see  the 
lions,  though  he  was  carried  in  a  coach.  I  never  could  have 
thought  there  had  been  upon  earth  a  man  so  little  curious  in 
the  world  as  he  is. 

Now  your  true  walker  is  mightily  "curious  in 
the  world,"  and  he  goes  upon  his  way  zealous  to 
sate  himself  with  a  thousand  quaintnesses.  When 
he  writes  a  book  he  fills  it  full  of  food,  drink, 
tobacco,  the  scent  of  sawmills  on  sunny  after- 
noons, and  arrivals  at  inns  late  at  night.  He 
writes  what  Mr.  Mosher  calls  a  book-a-bosom. 


SHANDYGAFF  45 

Diaries  and  letters  are  often  best  of  all  because 
they  abound  in  these  matters.  And  because  walk- 
ing can  never  again  be  what  it  was — the  motor- 
cars will  see  to  that — it  is  our  duty  to  pay  it 
greater  reverence  and  honour. 

Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  come  first  to  mind 
in  any  talk  about  walking.  The  first  time  they 
met  was  in  1797  when  Coleridge  tramped  from 
Nether  Stowey  to  Racedown  (thirty  miles  in  an 
air-line,  and  full  forty  by  road)  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  William  and  Dorothy.  That  is 
practically  from  the  Bristol  Channel  to  the  Eng- 
lish ditto,  a  rousing  stretch.  It  was  Words- 
worth's pamphlet  describing  a  walk  across  France 
to  the  Alps  that  spurred  Coleridge  on  to  this 
expedition.  The  trio  became  fast  friends,  and 
William  and  Dorothy  moved  to  Alfoxden  (near 
Nether  Stowey)  to  enjoy  the  companionship. 
What  one  would  give  for  some  adequate  account 
of  their  walks  and  talks  together  over  the 
Quantocks.  They  planned  a  little  walking  trip 
into  Devonshire  that  autumn  (1797)  and  "The 
Ancient  Mariner"  was  written  in  the  hope  of  de- 
fraying the  expenses  of  the  adventure. 

De  Quincey  himself,  who  tells  us  so  much 
jovial  gossip  about  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge, 
was  no  mean  pedestrian.  He  describes  a  forty- 
mile  all-night  walk  from  Bridge  water  to  Bristol, 


46  SHANDYGAFF 

on  the  evening  after  first  meeting  Coleridge.  He 
could  not  sleep  after  the  intellectual  excitement 
of  the  day,  and  through  a  summer  night  "divinely 
calm"  he  busied  himself  with  meditation  on  the 
sad  spectacle  he  had  witnessed:  a  great  mind 
hastening  to  decay. 

I  have  always  fancied  that  walking  as  a  fine 
art  was  not  much  practised  before  the  eighteenth 
century.  We  know  from  Ambassador  Jusserand's 
famous  book  how  many  wayfarers  were  on  the 
roads  in  the  fourteenth  century,  but  none  of  these 
were  abroad  for  the  pleasures  of  moving  medi- 
tation and  scenery.  We  can  gather  from  Mr. 
Tristram's  "Coaching  Days  and  Coaching  Ways" 
that  the  highroads  were  by  no  means  safe  for 
solitary  travellers  even  so  late  as  1750.  In 
"Joseph  Andrews"  (1742)  whenever  any  of  the 
characters  proceed  afoot  they  are  almost  certain 
to  be  held  up.  Mr.  Isaac  Walton,  it  is  true,  was  a 
considerable  rambler  a  century  earlier  than  this, 
and  in  his  Derbyshire  hills  must  have  passed  many 
lonely  gullies;  but  footpads  were  more  likely  to 
ambush  the  main  roads.  It  would  be  a  hard- 
hearted bandit  who  would  despoil  the  gentle 
angler  of  his  basket  of  trouts.  Goldsniith,  too, 
was  a  lusty  walker,  and  tramped  it  over  the  Con- 
tinent for  two  years  (1754-6)  with  little  more 
baggage  than  a  flute:  he  might  have  written  "The 


SHANDYGAFF  47 

Handy  Guide  for  Beggars"  long  before  Vachel 
Lindsay.  But  generally  speaking,  it  is  true  that 
cross-country  walks  for  the  pure  delight  of  rhyth- 
mically placing  one  foot  before  the  other  were 
rare  before  Wordsworth.  I  always  think  of  him 
as  one  of  the  first  to  employ  his  legs  as  an  instru- 
ment of  philosophy. 

After  Wordsworth  they  come  thick  and  fast. 
Hazlitt,  of  course — have  you  paid  the  tax  that 
R.L.S.  imposes  on  all  who  have  not  read  Hazlitt's 
"On  Going  A  Journey?"  Then  Keats:  never 
was  there  more  fruitful  walk  than  the  early  morn- 
ing stroll  from  Clerkenwell  to  the  Poultry  in  Octo- 
ber, 1816,  that  produced  "Much  have  I  travelled 
in  the  realms  of  gold."  He  must  have  set  out 
early  enough,  for  the  manuscript  of  the  sonnet 
was  on  Cowden  Clarke's  table  by  breakfast  time. 
And  by  the  way,  did  you  know  that  the  copy  of 
Chapman's  Homer  which  inspired  it  belonged  to 
the  financial  editor  of  the  Times?  Never  did  finan- 
cial editor  live  to  better  purpose! 

There  are  many  words  of  Keats  that  are  a  joyful 
viaticum  for  the  walker:  get  these  by  rote  in  some 
membrane  of  memory: 

The  great  Elements  we  know  of  are  no  mean  comforters: 
the  open  sky  sits  upon  our  senses  like  a  sapphire  crown — the 
Air  is  our  robe  of  state — the  Earth  is  our  throne,  and  the  sea 
a  mighty  minstrel  playing  before  it. 


48  SHANDYGAFF 

The  Victorians  were  great  walkers.  Railways 
were  but  striplings;  inns  were  at  their  prime. 
Hark  to  the  great  names  in  the  walker's  Hall  of 
Fame:  Tennyson,  FitzGerald,  Matthew  Arnold, 
Carlyle,  Kingsley,  Meredith,  Richard  Jefferies. 
What  walker  can  ever  forget  the  day  when  he 
first  read  "The  Story  of  My  Heart?"  In  my 
case  it  was  the  24th  of  August,  1912,  on  a  train 
from  London  to  Cambridge.  Then  there  were 
George  Borrow,  Emily  Bronte  on  her  Yorkshire 
moors,  and  Leslie  Stephen,  one  of  the  princes  of 
the  clan  and  founder  of  the  famous  Sunday 
Tramps  of  whom  Meredith  was  one.  Walt 
Whitman  would  have  made  a  notable  addition 
to  that  posse  of  philosophic  walkers,  save  that  I 
fear  the  garrulous  half-baked  old  barbarian  would 
have  been  disappointed  that  he  could  not  domi- 
nate the  conversation. 

There  have  been  stout  walkers  in  our  own  day. 
Mr.  W.  H.  Davies  (the  Super-Tramp),  G.  M. 
Trevelyan,  Hilaire  Belloc,  Edward  Thomas  who 
died  on  the  field  of  honour  in  April,  1917,  and 
Francis  Ledwidge,  who  was  killed  in  Flanders. 
Who  can  forget  his  noble  words,  "I  have  taken  up 
arms  for  the  fields  along  the  Boyne,  for  the  birds 
and  the  blue  sky  over  them."  There  is  Walter 
Prichard  Eaton,  the  Jefferies  of  our  own  Berk- 
shires.  One  could  extend  the  list  almost  without 


SHANDYGAFF  49 

end.  Sometimes  it  seems  as  though  literature 
were  a  co-product  of  legs  and  head. 

Charles  Lamb  and  Leigh  Hunt  were  great  city 
ramblers,  followed  in  due  course  by  Dickens, 
R.L.S.,  Edward  Lucas,  Holbrook  Jackson,  and 
Pearsall  Smith.  Mr.  Thomas  Burke  is  another, 
whose  "Nights  in  Town"  will  delight  the  lover 
of  the  greatest  of  all  cities.  But  urban  wander- 
ings, delicious  as  they  are,  are  not  quite  what  we 
mean  by  walking.  On  pavements  one  goes  by 
fit  and  start,  halting  to  see,  to  hear,  and  to  specu- 
late. In  the  country  one  captures  the  true  ecstasy 
of  the  long,  unbroken  swing,  the  harmonious  glow 
of  mind  and  body,  eyes  fed,  soul  feasted,  brain 
and  muscle  exercised  alike. 

Meredith  is  perhaps  the  Supreme  Pontiff  of 
modern  country  walkers:  no  soft  lover  of  drowsy 
golden  weather,  but  master  cf  the  stiffer  breed 
who  salute  frost  and  lashing  rain  and  roaring 
southwest  wind,  who  leap  to  grapple  with  the 
dissolving  riddles  of  destiny.  February  and  March 
are  his  months: 

For  love  we  Earth,  then  serve  we  all; 

Her  mystic  secret  then  is  ours : 
We  fall,  or  view  our  treasures  fall, 

Unclouded,  as  beholds  her  flowers. 

Earth,  from  a  night  of  frosty  wreck? 
Enrobed  in  morning's  mounted  fire, 


50  SHANDYGAFF 

When  lowly,  with  a  broken  neck, 
The  crocus  lays  her  cheek  to  mire. 

I  suppose  every  walker  collects  a  few  precious 
books  which  form  the  bible  of  his  chosen  art.  I 
have  long  been  collecting  a  Walker's  Breviary 
of  my  own.  It  includes  Stevenson's  "Walking 
Tours,"  G.  M.  Trevelyan's  "Walking,"  Leslie 
Stephen's  "In  Praise  of  Walking,"  shards  and 
crystals  from  all  the  others  I  have  mentioned. 
Michael  Fairless,  Vachel  Lindsay,  and  Frank 
Sidgwick  have  place  in  it.  On  my  private  shelf 
stands  "Journeys  to  Bagdad"  by  Mr.  Charles 
Brooks,  who  has  good  pleasantry  to  utter  on  this 
topic;  and  a  manly  little  volume,  "Walking*  as 
Education,"  by  the  Rev.  A.  N.  Cooper,  "the 
walking  parson,"  published  in  England  in  1910. 
On  that  same  shelf  there  will  soon  stand  a  volume 
of  delicious  essays  by  one  of  the  most  accomplished 
of  American  walkers,  Mr.  Robert  Cortes  Holliday, 
the  American  Belloc,  whose  "Walking  Stick 
Papers"  has  beckoned  to  the  eye  of  a  far-seeing 
publisher.  Mr.  Holliday  it  is  who  has  bravely 
stated  why  so  few  of  the  fair  sex  are  able  to 
participate  in  walking  tours: 

No  one,  though  (this  is  the  first  article  to  be  observed), 
should  ever  go  a  journey  with  any  other  than  him  with  whom 
one  walks  arm  in  arm,  in  the  evening,  the  twilight,  and,  talk- 


SHANDYGAFF  51 

ing  (let  us  suppose)  of  men's  given  names,  agrees  that  if  either 
should  have  a  son  he  shall  be  named  after  the  other.  Walking 
in  the  gathering  dusk,  two  and  two,  since  the  world  began, 
there  have  always  been  young  men  who  have  thus  to  one 
another  plighted  their  troth.  If  one  is  not  still  one  of  these, 
then,  in  the  sense  here  used,  journeys  are  over  for  him.  What 
is  left  to  him  of  life  he  may  enjoy,  but  not  journeys.  Mention 
should  be  made  in  passing  that  some  have  been  found  so  ignor- 
ant of  the  nature  of  journeys  as  to»  suppose  that  they  might 
be  taken  in  company  with  members,  or  a  member,  of  the 
other  sex.  Now,  one  who  writes  of  journeys  would  cheerfully 
be  burned  at  the  stake  before  he  would  knowingly  under- 
estimate women.  But  it  must  be  confessed  that  it  is  another 
season  in  the  life  of  man  that  they  fill. 

They  are  too  personal  for  the  high  enjoyment  of  going  a 
journey.  They  must  forever  be  thinking  about  you  or  about 
themselves;  with  them  everything  in  the  world  is  somehow 
tangled  up  in  these  matters;  and  when  you  are  with  them 
(you  cannot  help  it,  or  if  you  could  they  would  not  allow  it) 
you  must  forever  be  thinking  about  them  or  yourself.  Noth- 
ing on  either  side  can  be  seen  detached.  They  cannot  rise 
to  that  philosophic  plane  of  mind  which  is  the  very  marrow 
of  going  a  journey.  One  reason  for  this  is  that  they  can  never 
escape  from  the  idea  of  society:  You  are  in  their  society, 
they  are  in  yours;  and  the  multitudinous  personal  ties  which 
connect  you  all  to  that  great  order  called  society  that  you 
have  for  a  period  got  away  from  physically  are  present.  Like 
the  business  man  who  goes  on  a  vacation  from  his  business 
and  takes  his  business  habits  along  with  him,  so  on  a  journey 
they  would  bring  society  along,  and  all  sort  of  etiquette. 

He  that  goes  a  journey  shakes  off  the  trammels  of  the  world; 
he  has  fled  all  impediments  and  inconveniences;  he  belongs, 
for  the  moment,  to  no  time  or  place.  He  is  neither  rich  nor 


52  SHANDYGAFF 

poor,  but  in  that  which  he  thinks  and  sees.  There  is  not 
such  another  Arcadia  for  this  on  earth  as  in  going  a  journey. 
He  that  goes  a  journey  escapes,  for  a  breath  of  air,  from  all 
conventions;  without  which,  though,  of  course,  society  would 
go  to  pot;  and  which  are  the  very  natural  instinct  of  women. 

Mr.  Holliday  has  other  goodly  matter  upon  the 
philosophy  and  art  of  locomotion,  and  those  who 
are  wise  and  have  a  lively  faith  may  be  admitted 
to  great  and  surpassing  delights  if  they  will  here 
and  now  make  memorandum  to  buy  his  book, 
which  will  soon  be  published. 

Speaking  of  Vachel  Lindsay,  his  "Handy 
Guide  for  Beggars"  will  bring  an  itch  along  the 
shanks  of  those  who  love  shoe-leather  and  a 
knobbed  stick.  Vachel  sets  out  for  a  walk  in  no 
mean  and  pettifogging  spirit:  he  proceeds  as  ai 
army  with  banners:  he  intends  that  the  world 
shall  know  he  is  afoot:  the  Great  Khan  of  Spring- 
field is  unleashed — let  ale  wives  and  deacons 
tremble! 

Ungenerous  hosts  have  cozened  Vachel  by  beg- 
ging him  to  recite  his  poems  at  the  beginning  of 
each  course,  in  the  meantime  getting  on  with 
their  eating;  but  despite  the  naivete  of  his  eager- 
ness to  sing,  there  is  a  plain  and  manly  simplicity 
about  Vachel  that  delights  us  all.  We  like  to 
know  that  here  is  a  poet  who  has  wrestled  with 
poverty,  who  never  wrote  a  Class  Day  poem  at 


SHANDYGAFF  53 

Harvard,  who  has  worn  frayed  collars  or  none  at 
all,  and  who  lets  the  barber  shave  the  back  of 
his  neck.  We  like  to  know  that  he  has  tramped 
the  ties  in  Georgia,  harvested  in  Kansas,  been 
fumigated  in  New  Jersey,  and  lives  contented  in 
Illinois.  Four  weeks  a  year  he  lives  as  the  darling 
of  the  cisalleghany  Browning  Societies,  but  he  is 
always  glad  to  get  back  to  Springfield  and  resume 
his  robes  as  the  local  Rabindranath.  If  he  ever 
buys  an  automobile  I  am  positive  it  will  be  a 
Ford.  Here  is  homo  americanus,  one  of  our- 
selves, who  never  wore  spats  in  his  life. 

But  even  the  plain  man  may  see  visions. 
Walking  on  crowded  city  streets  at  night,  watch- 
ing the  lighted  windows,  delicatessen  shops,  pea- 
nut carts,  bakeries,  fish  stalls,  free  lunch  counters 
piled  with  crackers  and  saloon  cheese,  and  minor 
poets  struggling  home  with  the  Saturday  night 
marketing — he  feels  the  thrill  of  being  one,  or 
at  least  two-thirds,  with  this  various,  grotesque, 
pathetic,  and  surprising  humanity.  The  sense 
of  fellowship  with  every  other  walking  biped,  the 
full-blooded  understanding  that  Whitman  and  O. 
Henry  knew  in  brimming  measure,  comes  by 
gulps  and  twinges  to  almost  all.  That  is  the 
essence  of  Lindsay's  feeling  about  life.  He  loves 
crowds,  companionship,  plenty  of  sirloin  and 
onions,  and  seeing  his  name  in  print.  He  sings 


54  SHANDYGAFF 

and  celebrates  the  great  symbols  of  our  hodge- 
podge democracy:  ice  cream  soda,  electrical  sky- 
signs,  Sunday  School  picnics,  the  movies,  Mark 
Twain.  In  the  teeming  ooze  and  ocean  bottoms 
of  our  atlantic  humanity  he  finds  rich  corals  and 
rainbow  shells,  hospitality,  reverence,  love,  and 
beauty. 

This  is  the  sentiment  that  makes  a  merry 
pedestrian,  and  Vachel  has  scrutineered  and  scuf- 
fled through  a  dozen  states,  lightening  larders 
and  puzzling  the  worldly.  Afoot  and  penniless 
is  his  technique — "stopping  when  he  had  a  mind 
to,  singing  when  he  felt  inclined  to" — and  beg- 
ging his  meals  and  bed.  I  suppose  he  has  had 
as  many  free  meals  as  any  American  citizen;  and 
this  is  how  he  does  it,  copied  from  his  little  pam- 
phlet used  on  many  a  road: 

;RHYMES  TO  BE  TRADED  FOR  BREAD 

Being  new  verses  by  Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay,  Springfield, 
Illinois,  June,  1912,  printed  expressly  as  a  substitute  for  money. 

This  book  is  to  be  used  in  exchange  for  the  necessities  of 
life  on  a  tramp-journey  from  the  author's  home  town,  through 
the  West  and  back,  during  which  he  will  observe  the  'following 
rules: 

(1)  Keep  away  from  the  cities. 

(2)  Keep  away  from  the  railroads. 

(3)  Have  nothing  to  do  with  money.     Carry  no  baggage 

(4)  Ask  for  dinner  about  quarter  after  eleven. 


SHANDYGAFF  55 

(5)  Ask  for  supper,  lodging,  and  breakfast  about  quarter 
of  five. 

(6)  Travel  alone. 

(7)  Be  neat,  truthful,  civil,  and  on  the  square. 

(8)  Preach  the  Gospel  of  Beauty. 

In  order  to  carry  out  the  last  rule  there  will  be  three  excep- 
tions to  the  rule  against  baggage.  (1)  The  author  will 
carry  a  brief  printed  statement,  called  "The  Gospel  of 
Beauty."  (2)  He  will  carry  this  book  of  rhymes  for  distri- 
bution. (3)  Also  he  will  carry  a  small  portfolio  with  pic- 
tures, etc.,  chosen  to  give  an  outline  of  his  view  of  the  history 
of  art,  especially  as  it  applies  to  America. 

Perhaps  I  have  tarried  too  long  over  Vachel; 
but  I  have  set  down  his  theories  of  vagabonding 
because  many  walkers  will  find  them  interesting, 
"The  Handy  Guide  for  Beggars"  will  leave  you 
footsore  but  better  for  the  exercise.  And  when 
the  fascinating  story  of  American  literature  in 
this  decade  (1910-20)  is  finally  written,  there  will 
be  a  happy  and  well-merited  corner  in  it  for  a 
dusty  but  "neat,  truthful,  and  civil"  figure  from 
Springfield,  Illinois. 

A  good  pipeful  of  prose  to  solace  yourself 
withal,  about  sunset  on  a  lonely  road,  is  that 
passage  on  "Lying  Awake  at  Night"  to  be  found 
in  "The  Forest,"  by  Stewart  Edward  White. 
Major  White  is  one  of  the  best  friends  the  open- 
air  walker  has,  and  don't  forget  it! 

The  motors  have  done  this  for  us  at  least,  that 


56  SHANDYGAFF 

as  they  have  made  the  highways  their  own  be* 
yond  dispute,  walking  will  remain  the  mystic 
and  private  pleasure  of  the  secret  and  humble  few. 
For  us  the  byways,  the  footpaths,  and  the  pas- 
tures will  be  sanctified  and  sweet.  Thank 
heaven  there  are  still  gentle  souls  uncorrupted 
by  the  victrola  and  the  limousine.  In  our  old 
trousers  and  our  easy  shoes,  with  pipe  and  stick, 
we  can  do  our  fifteen  miles  between  lunch  and 
dinner,  and  glorify  the  ways  of  God  to  man. 

And  sometimes,  about  two  o'clock  of  an  after- 
noon (these  spells  come  most  often  about  half  an 
hour  after  lunch),  the  old  angel  of  peregrination 
lifts  himself  up  in  me,  and  I  yearn  and  wamble  for 
a  season  afoot.  When  a  blue  air  is  moving 
keenly  through  bare  boughs  this  angel  is  most 
vociferous.  I  gape  wanly  round  the  lofty  citadel 
where  I  am  pretending  to  earn  the  Monday 
afternoon  envelope.  The  filing  case,  thermostat, 
card  index,  typewriter,  automatic  telephone: 
these  ingenious  anodynes  avail  me  not.  Even 
the  visits  of  golden  nymphs,  sweet  ambassadors 
of  commerce,  who  rustle  in  and  out  of  my  room 
with  memoranda,  mail,  manuscripts,  aye,  even 
these  lightfoot  figures  fail  to  charm.  And  the 
mind  goes  out  to  the  endless  vistas  of  streets, 
roads,  fields,  and  rivers  that  summon  the  wanderer 
with  laughing  voice.  Somewhere  a  great  wind  is 


SHANDYGAFF  57 

scouring  the  hillsides;  and  once  upon  a  time  a 
man  set  out  along  the  Great  North  Road  to  walk 
to  Royston  in  the  rain. 

Grant  us,  O  Zeus !  the  tingling  tremour  of  thigh 
and  shank  that  comes  of  a  dozen  sturdy  miles  laid 
underheel.  Grant  us  "fine  walking  on  the  hills 
in  the  direction  of  the  sea";  or  a  winding  road  that 
tumbles  down  to  some  Cotswold  village.  Let  an 
inn  parlour  lie  behind  red  curtains,  and  a  table  be 
drawn  toward  the  fire.  Let  there  be  a  loin  of  cold 
beef,  an  elbow  of  yellow  cheese,  a  tankard  of  dog's 
nose.  Then  may  we  prop  our  Bacon's  Essays 
against  the  pewter  and  study  those  mellow  words : 
*'  Certainly  it  is  heaven  upon  earth  to  have  a  man's 
mind  move  in  charity,  rest  in  providence,  and 
turn  upon  the  poles  of  truth."  Haec  studio,  per- 
noctant  noibiscum,  peregrinantur,  rusticantur. 


RUPERT  BROOKE 

RJPERT  Brooke  had  the  oldest  pith  of 
England  in  his  fibre.  He  was  born  of 
East  Anglia,  the  original  vein  of  English 
blood.  Ruddy  skin,  golden-brown  hair,  blue  eyes, 
are  the  stamp  of  the  Angles.  Walsingham,  in  Nor- 
folk, was  the  home  of  the  family.  His  father 
was  a  master  at  Rugby;  his  grandfather  a  canon 
in  the  church. 

In  1913  Heffer,  the  well-known  bookseller 
and  publisher  of  Cambridge,  England,  issued 
a  little  anthology  called  Cambridge  Poems 
1900-1913.  This  volume  was  my  first  intro- 
duction to  Brooke.  As  an  undergraduate  at 
Oxford  during  the  years  1910-13  I  had  heard 
of  his  work  from  time  to  time;  but  I  think  we 
youngsters  at  Oxford  were  too  absorbed  in  our 
own  small  versemakings  to  watch  very  carefully 
what  the  "Tabs"  were  doing.  His  poem  The 
Old  Vicarage,  Grantchester,  reprinted  in  Heffer's 
Cambridge  Poems,  first  fell  under  my  eye  during 
the  winter  of  1913-14. 

Grantchester  is  a  tiny  hamlet  just  outside  Cam- 
bridge; set  in  the  meadows  along  the  Cam  or  Granta 
(the  earlier  name),  and  next  door  to  the  Trump- 

58 


SHANDYGAFF  59 

ington  of  Chaucer's  "The  Reeve's  Tale."  All 
that  Cambridge  country  is  flat  and  comparatively 
uninteresting;  patch  worked  with  chalky  fields 
bright  with  poppies;  slow,  shallow  streams  drifting 
between  pollard  willows;  it  is  the  beginning  of  the 
fen  district,  and  from  the  brow  of  the  Royston 
downs  (thirteen  miles  away)  it  lies  as  level  as  a 
table-top  with  the  great  chapel  of  King's  clear 
against  the  sky.  It  is  the  favourite  lament  of 
Cambridge  men  that  their  "Umgebung"  is  so  dull 
and  monotonous  compared  with  the  rolling  witch- 
ery of  Oxfordshire. 

But  to  the  young  Cantab  sitting  over  his  beer  at 
the  Cafe  des  Westens  in  Berlin,  the  Cambridge 
villages  seemed  precious  and  fair  indeed.  Balanc- 
ing between  genuine  homesickness  for  the  green 
pools  of  the  Cam,  and  a  humorous  whim  in  his 
rhymed  comment  on  the  outlying  villages,  Brooke 
wrote  the  Grantchester  poem;  and  probably 
when  the  fleeting  pang  of  nostalgia  was  over 
enjoyed  the  evening  in  Berlin  hugely.  But  the 
verses  are  more  than  of  merely  passing  interest. 
To  one  who  knows  that  neighbourhood  the  picture 
is  cannily  vivid.  To  me  it  brings  back  with  pain- 
ful intensity  the  white  winding  road  from  Cam- 
bridge to  Royston  which  I  have  bicycled  hundreds 
of  times.  One  sees  the  little  inns  along  the  way 
— the  Waggon  and  Horses,  the  Plough,  the  King's 


60  SHANDYGAFF 

Arms — and  the  recurring  blue  signboard  Fine  Roy- 
ston  Ales  (the  Roys  ton  brewery  being  famous  in 
those     parts).     Behind     the     fun     there     shines 
Brooke's  passionate  devotion  to  the  soil  and  soul 
of  England  which  was  to  reach  its  final  expression 
so   tragically   soon.     And   even   behind   this   the 
immortal    questions    of    youth    which    have    no 
country  and  no  clime- 
Say,  is  there  Beauty  yet  to  find? 
And  Certainty?  and  Quiet  kind? 

No  lover  of  England,  certainly  no  lover  of 
Cambridge,  is  likely  to  forget  the  Grantchester 
poem.  But  knowing  Brooke  only  by  that,  one 
may  perhaps  be  excused  for  having  merely  ticketed 
him  as  one  of  the  score  of  young  varsity  poets 
whom  Oxford  and  Cambridge  had  graduated  in 
the  past  decade  and  who  are  all  doing  fine  and 
promising  work.  Even  though  he  tarried  here 
in  the  United  States  ("El  Cuspidorado,"  as  he 
wittily  observed)  and  many  hold  precious  the 
memory  of  his  vivid  mind  and  flashing  face,  to 
most  of  us  he  was  totally  unknown.  Then  came 
the  War;  he  took  part  in  the  unsuccessful  Antwerp 
Expedition;  and  while  in  training  for  the  ^Egean 
campaign  he  wrote  the  five  sonnets  entitled 
"1914."  I  do  not  know  exactly  when  they  were 
written  or  where  first  published.  Their  great 
popularity  began  when  the  Dean  of  St.  Paul's 


SHANDYGAFF  61 

quoted  from  them  in  a  sermon  on  Easter  Day, 
1915,  alluding  to  them  as  the  finest  expression  of 
the  English  spirit  that  the  War  had  called  forth. 
They  came  to  New  York  in  the  shape  of  clippings 
from  the  London  Times.  No  one  could  read  the 
matchless  sonnet: 

"If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me: 

That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  for  ever  England." 

and  not  be  thrilled  to  the  quick.  A  country  doc- 
tor in  Ohio  to  whom  I  sent  a  copy  of  the  sonnet 
wrote  "I  cannot  read  it  without  tears."  This  was 
poetry  indeed;  like  the  Scotchman  and  his  house> 
we  kent  it  by  the  biggin  o't.  I  suppose  many 
another  stranger  must  have  done  as  I  did:  wrote 
to  Brooke  to  express  gratitude  for  the  perfect 
words.  But  he  had  sailed  for  the  Mediterranean 
long  before.  Presently  came  a  letter  from  London 
saying  that  he  had  died  on  the  very  day  of  my 
letter — April  23,  1915.  He  died  on  board  the 
French  hospital  ship  Duguay-Trouin,  on  Shake- 
speare's birthday,  in  his  28th  year.  One  gathers 
from  the  log  of  the  hospital-ship  that  the  cause  of 
his  death  was  a  malignant  ulcer,  due  to  the  sting 
of  some  venomous  fly.  He  had  been  weakened 
by  a  previous  touch  of  sunstroke. 

A  description  of  the  burial  is  given  in  "Me- 
morials of  Old  Rugbeians  Who  Fell  in  the  Great 


62  SHANDYGAFF 

War."  It  vividly  recalls  Stevenson's  last  journey 
to  the  Samoan  mountain  top  which  Brooke  him- 
self had  so  recently  visited.  The  account  was 
written  by  one  of  Brooke's  comrades,  who  has 
since  been  killed  in  action: 

We  found  a  most  lovely  place  for  his  grave,  about  a  mile 
up  the  valley  from  the  sea,  an  olive  grove  above  a  watercourse, 
dry  now,  but  torrential  in  winter.  Two  mountains  flank  it 
on  either  side,  and  Mount  Khokilas  is  at  its  head.  We  chose 
a  place  in  the  most  lovely  grove  I  have  ever  seen,  or  imagined, 
a  little  glade  of  about  a  dozen  trees,  carpeted  with  mauve- 
flowering  sage.  Over  its  head  droops  an  olive  tree,  and  round 
it  is  a  little  space  clear  of  all  undergrowth. 

About  a  quarter  past  nine  the  funeral  party  arrived  and 
made  their  way  up  the  steep,  narrow,  and  rocky  path  that 
leads  to  the  grave.  The  way  was  so  rough  and  uncertain  that 
we  had  to  have  men  with  lamps  every  twenty  yards  to  guide 
the  bearers.  He  was  borne  by  petty  officers  of  his  own  com- 
pany, and  so  slowly  did  they  go  that  it  was  not  till  nearly 
eleven  that  they  reached  the  grave. 

We  buried  him  by  cloudy  moonlight.  He  wore  his  uniform, 
and  on  the  coffin  were  his  helmet,  belt,  and  pistol  (he  had  no 
sword).  We  lined  the  grave  with  flowers  and  olive,  and 
Colonel  Quilter  laid  an  olive  wreath  on  the  coffin.  The 
chaplain  who  saw  him  in  the  afternoon  read  the  service  very 
simply.  The  firing  party  fired  three  volleys  and  the  bugles 
sounded  the  "Last  Post." 

And  so  we  laid  him  to  rest  in  that  lovely  valley,  his  head 
towards  those  mountains  that  he  would  have  loved  to  know, 
and  his  feet  towards  the  sea.  He  once  said  in  chance  talk 
that  he  would  like  to  be  buried  in  a  Greek  island.  He  could 


SHANDYGAFF  63 

have  no  lovelier  one  than  Skyros,  and  no  quieter  resting 
place. 

On  his  grave  we  heaped  great  blocks  of  white  marble;  the 
men  of  his  company  made  a  great  wooden  cross  for  his  head, 
with  his  name  upon  it,  and  his  platoon  put  a  smaller  one  at 
his  feet.  On  the  back  of  the  large  cross  our  interpreter 
wrote  in  Greek.  .  .  .  "Here  lies  the  servant  of  God, 
sub-lieutenant  in  the  English  navy,  who  died  for  the  deliver- 
ance of  Constantinople  from  the  Turks." 

The  next  morning  we  sailed,  and  had  no  chance  of  revisit- 
ing his  grave. 

It  is  no  mere  flippancy  to  say  that  the  War  did 
much  for  Rupert  Brooke.  The  boy  who  had  written 
many  hot,  morbid,  immature  verses  and  a  handful 
of  perfect  poetry,  stands  now  by  one  swift  transla- 
tion in  the  golden  cloudland  of  English  letters. 
There  will  never,  can  never,  be  any  laggard  note  in 
the  praise  of  his  work.  And  of  a  young  poet  dead 
one  may  say  things  that  would  be  too  fulsome  for 
life.  Professor  Gilbert  Murray  is  quoted: 

"Among  all  who  have  been  poets  and  died 
young,  it  is  hard  to  think  of  one  who,  both  in  life 
and  death,  has  so  typified  the  ideal  radiance  of 
youth  and  poetry." 

In  the  grave  among  the  olive  trees  on  the  island 
of  Skyros,  Brooke  found  at  least  one  Certainty — 
that  of  being  "among  the  English  poets."  He 
would  probably  be  the  last  to  ask  a  more  high- 
sounding  epitaph. 


64  SHANDYGAFF 

His  "Collected  Poems"  as  published  consist  of 
eighty-two  pieces,  fifty  of  which  were  published  in  his 
first  book,  issued  (in  England  only)  in  1 9 1 1 .  That  is 
to  say  fifty  of  the  poems  were  written  before  the 
age  of  24,  and  seventeen  of  the  fifty  before  21. 
These  last  are  thoroughly  youthful  in  formula. 
We  all  go  through  the  old  familiar  cycle,  and 
Brooke  did  not  take  his  youth  at  second  hand. 
Socialism,  vegetarianism,  bathing  by  moonlight 
in  the  Cam,  sleeping  out  of  doors,  walking  bare- 
foot on  the  crisp  English  turf,  channel  crossings 
and  what  not — it  is  all  a  part  of  the  grand  game. 
We  can  only  ask  that  the  man  really  see  what 
he  says  he  sees,  and  report  it  with  what  grace  he 
can  muster. 

And  so  of  the  seventeen  earliest  poems  there 
need  not  be  fulsome  praise.  Few  of  us  are  im- 
mortal poets  by  twenty-one.  But  even  Brooke's 
undergraduate  verses  refused  to  fall  entirely  into 
the  usual  grooves  of  sophomore  song.  So  unerring 
a  critic  as  Professor  Woodberry  (his  introduction 
to  the  "  Collected  Poems"  is  so  good  that  lesser  hands 
may  well  pause)  finds  in  them  "more  of  the 
intoxication  of  the  god"  than  in  the  later  rounder 
work.  They  include  the  dreaming  tenderness  of 
Day  That  I  Have  Loved;  they  include  such  neat 
little  pictures  of  the  gross  and  sordid  as  the  two 
poems  Wagner  and  Dawn,  written  on  a  trip  in  Ger- 


SHANDYGAFF  65 

many.  (It  is  curious  that  the  only  note  of  exasper- 
ation in  Brooke's  poems  occurs  when  he  writes 
from  Germany.  One  finds  it  again,  wittily  put, 
in  Grantchester.) 

This  vein  of  brutality  and  resolute  ugliness  that 
one  finds  here  and  there  in  Brooke's  work  is  not 
wholly  amiss  nor  unintelligible.  Like  all  young 
men  of  quick  blood  he  seized  gaily  upon  the  earthy 
basis  of  our  humanity  and  found  in  it  food  for 
purging  laughter.  There  was  never  a  young  poet 
worth  bread  and  salt  who  did  not  scrawl  ribald 
verses  in  his  day;  we  may  surmise  that  Brooke's 
peers  at  King's  would  recall  many  vigorous  stanzas 
that  are  not  included  in  the  volume  at  hand.  The 
few  touches  that  we  have  in  this  vein  show  a 
masculine  fear  on  Brooke's  part  of  being  merely 
pretty  in  his  verse.  In  his  young  thirst  for 
reality  he  did  not  boggle  at  coarse  figures  or 
loathsome  metaphors.  Just  as  his  poems  of 
1905-08  are  of  the  cliche  period  where  all  lips 
are  "scarlet,"  and  lamps  are  "relumed,"  so  the 
section  dated  1908-11  shows  Brooke  in  the  Shrop- 
shire Lad  stage,  at  the  mercy  of  extravagant  sex 
images,  and  yet  developing  into  the  dramatic 
felicity  of  his  sonnet  The  Hill: 

Breathless,  we  flung  us  on  the  windy  hill, 
Laughed  in  the  sun,  and  kissed  the  lovely  grass, 
You  said,  "Through  glory  and  ecstasy  we  pass; 


66  SHANDYGAFF 

Wind,  sun,  and  earth  remain,  the  birds  sing  still, 
When  we  are  old,  are  old.     .     .     ."     "And  when  we  die 

All's  over  that  is  ours;  and  life  burns  on 
Through  other  lovers,  other  lips,"  said  I, 
—"Heart  of  my  heart,  our  heaven  is  now,  is  won!" 

"We  are  Earth's  best,  that  learnt  her  lesson  here. 
Life  is  our  cry.     We  have  kept  the  faith!"  we  said: 
"We  shall  go  down  with  unreluctant  tread 

Rose-crowned  into  the  darkness !"      .     .     .     Proud  we  were 

And  laughed,  that  had  such  brave  true  things  to  say. 

— And  then  you  suddenly  cried,  and  turned  away. 

The  true  lover  of  poetry,  it  seems  to  me,  cannot 
but  wish  that  the  "1914"  sonnets  and  the  most 
perfect  of  the  later  poems  had  been  separately 
issued.  The  best  of  Brooke  forms  a  thin  sheaf  of 
consummate  beauty,  and  I  imagine  that  the  little 
edition  of  "  1914  and  Other  Poems,"  containing  the 
thirty-two  later  poems,  which  was  published  in  Eng- 
land and  issued  in  Garden  City  by  Doubleday,  Page 
&  Company  in  July,  1915,  to  save  the  American  copy 
right,  will  always  be  more  precious  than  the  complete 
edition.  As  there  were  only  twenty -five  copies 
of  this  first  American  edition,  it  is  extremely  rare 
and  will  undoubtedly  be  sought  after  by  collectors. 
But  for  one  who  is  interested  to  trace  the  growth 
of  Brooke's  power,  the  steadying  of  his  poetic 
orbit  and  the  mounting  flame  of  his  joy  in  life, 
the  poems  of  1908-11  are  an  instructive  study. 


SHANDYGAFF  67 

From  the  perfected  brutality  of  Jealousy  or  Mene- 
laus  and  Helen  or  A  Channel  Passage  (these  bite 
like  Meredith)  we  see  him  passing  to  sonnets  that 
taste  of  Shakespeare  and  foretell  his  utter  mastery 
of  the  form.  What  could  better  the  wit  and 
beauty  of  this  song: 

"Oh!  Love,*'  they  said,  "is  King  of  Kings, 

And  Triumph  is  his  crown. 
Earth  fades  in  flame  before  his  wings, 

And  Sun  and  Moon  bow  down." 
But  that,  I  knew,  would  never  do; 

And  Heaven  is  all  too  high. 
So  whenever  I  meet  a  Queen,  I  said, 

I  will  not  catch  her  eye. 

« 

"Oh!  Love,"  they  said,  and  "Love,"  they  said, 

"The  Gift  of  Love  is  this; 
A  crown  of  thorns  about  thy  head, 

And  vinegar  to  thy  kiss!" — 
But  Tragedy  is  not  for  me; 

And  I'm  content  to  be  gay. 
So  whenever  I  spied  a  Tragic  Lady, 

I  went  another  way. 

And  so  I  never  feared  to  see 

You  wander  down  the  street, 
Or  come  across  the  fields  to  me 

On  ordinary  feet. 
For  what  they'd  never  told  me  of, 

And  what  I  never  knew; 
It  was  that  all  the  time,  my  love, 

Love  would  be  merely  you. 


68  SHANDYGAFF 

We  come  then  to  the  five  sonnets  inspired  by 
the  War.  Let  us  be  sparing  of  clumsy  comment. 
They  are  the  living  heart  of  young  England;  the 
throbbing  soul  of  all  that  gracious  manhood  torn 
from  its  happy  quest  of  Beauty  and  Certainty, 
flung  unheated  into  the  absurdities  of  War,  and 
yet  finding  in  this  supreme  sacrifice  an  answer  to 
all  its  pangs  of  doubt.  All  the  hot  yearnings  of 
"1905-08"  and  "1908-11"  are  gone;  here  is  no 
Shropshire  Lad  enlisting  for  spite,  but  a  joyous 
surrender  to  England  of  all  that  she  had  given. 
See  his  favourite  metaphor  (that  of  the  swimmer) 
recur — what  pictures  it  brings  of  "Parson's 
Pleasure"  on  the  Cher  and  the  willowy  bathing 
pool  on  the  Cam.  How  one  recalls  those  white 
Greek  bodies  against  the  green! 

Now,  God  be  thanked  who  has  matched  us  with  His  hour, 
And  caught  our  youth,  and  wakened  us  from  sleeping, 

With  hand  made  sure,  clear  eye,  and  sharpened  power, 
To  turn,  as  swimmers  into  cleanness  leaping. 

To  those  who  tell  us  England  is  grown  old  and 
fat  and  soft,  there  is  the  answer.  It  is  no  hymn 
of  hate  that  England's  youth  has  sung,  but  the 
farewell  of  those  who,  loving  life  with  infinite 
zest,  have  yet  found  in  surrendering  it  to  her  the 
Beauty,  the  Certainty,  yes  and  the  Quiet,  which 
they  had  sought.  On  those  five  pages  are  packed 


SHANDYGAFF  69 

in  simple  words  all  the  love  of  life,  the  love  of 
woman,  the  love  of  England  that  make  Brooke's 
memory  sweet.  Never  did  the  sonnet  speak  to 
finer  purpose.  "In  his  hands  the  thing  became 
a  trumpet  "- 

THE  DEAD 

Blow  out,  you  bugles,  over  the  rich  Dead! 

There's  none  of  these  so  lonely  and  poor  of  old, 
But,  dying,  has  made  us  rarer  gifts  than  gold. 

These  laid  the  world  away;  poured  out  the  red 

Sweet  wine  of  youth;  give  up  the  years  to  be 
Of  work  and  joy,  and  that  unhoped  serene, 
That  men  call  age;  and  those  who  would  have  been, 

Their  sons,  they  gave,  their  immortality. 

Blow,  bugles,  blow!     They  brought  us,  for  our  dearth 
Holiness,  lacked  so  long,  and  Love,  and  Pain. 

Honour  has  come  back,  as  a  King,  to  earth, 
And  paid  his  subjects  with  a  royal  wage; 

And  Nobleness  walks  in  our  ways  again; 
And  we  have  come  into  our  heritage. 

It  would  be  misleading,  perhaps,  to  leave 
Brooke's  poetry  with  the  echo  of  this  solemn  note. 
No  understanding  of  the  man  would  be  complete 
without  mentioning  the  vehement  gladness  and 
merriment  he  found  in  all  the  commonplaces  of  life. 
Poignant  to  all  cherishers  of  the  precious  details 
of  existence  must  be  his  poem  The  Great  Lover 


70  SHANDYGAFF 

where  he  catalogues  a  sort  of  trade  order  list  of  his 
stock   in    life.     The   lines    speak    with   the   very 
accent  of  Keats.     These  are  some  of  the  things 
he  holds  dear- 
White  plates  and  cups,  clean-gleaming, 

Ringed  with  blue  lines;  and  feathery,  faery  dust; 

Wet  roofs,  beneath  the  lamp-light;  the  strong  crust 

Of  friendly  bread;  and  many  tasting  food; 

Rainbows;  and  the  blue  bitter  smoke  of  wood; 

And  radiant  raindrops  couching  in  cool  flowers; 

And  flowers  themselves,  that  sway  through  sunny  hours, 

Dreaming  of  moths  that  drink  them  under  the  moon ; 

Then,  the  cool  kindliness  of  sheets,  that  soon 

Smoothe  away  trouble;  and  the  rough  male  kiss 

Of  blankets;  grainy  wood;  live  hair  that  is 

Shining  and  free;  blue-massing  clouds;  the  keen 

Unpassioned  beauty  of  a  great  machine; 

The  benison  of  hot  water;  furs  to  touch; 

The  good  smell  of  old  clothes;  and  other  such 

.     .     .     .     All  these  have  been  my  loves. 

Of  his  humour  only  those  who  knew  him  per- 
sonally have  a  right  to  speak;  but  where  does  one 
find  a  more  perfect  bit  of  gentle  satire  than  Heaven 
where  he  gives  us  a  Tennysonian  fish  pondering 
the  problem  of  a  future  life. 

This  life  cannot  be  All,  they  swear, 
For  how  unpleasant,  if  it  were! 
One  may  not  doubt  that,  somehow,  Good 
Shall  come  of  Water  and  of  Mud; 


SHANDYGAFF  71 

And,  sure,  the  reverent  eye  must  see 
A  Purpose  in  Liquidity. 
We  darkly  know,  by  Faith  we  cry 
The  future  is  not  Wholly  Dry.     .     .     . 
But  somewhere,  beyond  Space  and  Time, 
Is  wetter  water,  slimier  slime! 

No  future  anthology  of  English  wit  can  be  com- 
plete without  that  exquisite  bit  of  fooling. 

Of  such  a  sort,  to  use  Mr.  Mosher's  phrase,  was 
Rupert  Chawner  Brooke,  "the  latest  and  greatest 
of  young  Englishmen." 


THE  MAN 

JTT^HE  big  room  was  very  still.  Outside,  be- 
neath a  thin,  cold  drizzle,  the  first  tinge  of 

JL  green  showed  on  the  broad  lawn.  The 
crocuses  were  beginning  to  thrust  their  spears 
through  the  sodden  mold.  One  of  the  long 
French  windows  stood  ajar,  and  in  the  air  that 
slipped  through  was  a  clean,  moist  whiff  of  com- 
ing spring.  It  was  the  end  of  March. 

In  the  leather  armchair  by  the  wide,  flat  desk 
sat  a  man.  His  chin  was  on  his  chest;  the  lowered 
head  and  the  droop  of  the  broad,  spare  shoulders 
showed  the  impact  of  some  heavy  burden.  His 
clothes  were  gray — a  trim,  neatly  cut  business 
suit;  his  hair  was  gray;  his  gray -blue  eyes  were 
sombre.  In  the  gathering  dusk  he  seemed  only  a 
darker  shadow  in  the  padded  chair.  His  right 
hand — the  long,  firm,  nervous  hand  of  a  scholar — 
rested  on  the  blotting  pad.  A  silver  pen  had  slip- 
ped from  his  fingers  as  he  sat  in  thought.  On  the 
desk  lay  some  typed  sheets  which  he  was  revising. 

Sitting  there,  his  mind  had  been  traversing  the 
memories  of  the  past  two  and  a  half  years.  Every 

72 


SHANDYGAFF  73 

line  of  his  lean,  strong  figure  showed  some  trace  of 
the  responsibilities  he  had  borne.  In  the  greatest 
crisis  of  modern  times  he  had  steadfastly  pursued 
an  ideal,  regardless  of  the  bitterness  of  criticism  and 
the  sting  of  ridicule.  The  difficulties  had  been 
tremendous.  Every  kind  of  influence  had  bee'i 
brought  upon  him  to  do  certain  things,  none  of 
which  he  had  done.  A  scholar,  a  dreamer,  a  life- 
long student  of  history,  he  had  surprised  his  associ- 
ates by  the  clearness  of  his  vision,  the  tenacity  of 
his  will.  Never,  perhaps,  in  the  history  of  the 
nation  had  a  man  been  more  brutally  reviled  than 
he — save  one!  And  his  eyes  turned  to  the  wall 
where,  over  the  chimney  piece,  hung  the  portrait 
of  one  of  his  predecessors  who  had  stood  for  his 
ideals  in  a  time  of  fiery  trial.  It  was  too  dark  now 
to  see  the  picture  but  he  knew  well  the  rugged, 
homely  face,  the  tender,  pain-wrenched  mouth. 

This  man  had  dreamed  a  dream.  Climbing 
from  the  humble  youth  of  a  poor  student,  nour- 
ished in  classroom  and  library  with  the  burning 
visions  of  great  teachers,  he  had  hoped  in  this  high- 
est of  positions  to  guide  his  country  in  the  difficult 
path  of  a  higher  patriotism.  Philosopher,  idealist, 
keen  student  of  men,  he  had  been  able  to  keep  his 
eyes  steadfast  on  his  goal  despite  the  intolerable 
cloud  of  unjust  criticism  that  had  rolled  round 
him.  Venomous  and  shameful  attacks  had  hurt 


74  SHANDYGAFF 

him,  but  had  never  abated  his  purpose.  In  a 
world  reeling  and  smoking  with  the  insane  fury 
of  war,  one  nation  should  stand  unshaken  for  the 
message  of  the  spirit,  for  the  glory  of  humanity s 
for  the  settlement  of  disputes  by  other  means  than 
gunpowder  and  women's  tears.  That  was  his 
dream.  To  that  he  had  clung. 

He  shifted  grimly  in  his  chair,  and  took  up  the 
pen. 

What  a  long,  heart-rending  strain  it  had  been! 
His  mind  went  back  to  the  golden  August  day 
when  the  telegram  was  laid  on  his  desk  announc- 
ing that  the  old  civilization  of  Europe  had  fallen 
into  fragments.  He  remembered  the  first  meet- 
ing thereafter,  when  his  associates,  with  grave, 
anxious  faces,  debated  the  proper  stand  for  them 
to  take.  He  remembered  how,  in  the  swinging 
relaxation  of  an  afternoon  of  golf,  he  had  thought- 
fully planned  the  wording  of  his  first  neutrality 
proclamation. 

In  those  dim,  far-off  days,  who  had  dreamed 
what  would  come?  Who  could  have  believed 
that  great  nations  would  discard  without  com- 
punction all  the  carefully  built-up  conventions  of 
international  law?  That  murder  in  the  air,  on 
land,  on  the  sea,  under  the  sea,  would  be  rewarded 
by  the  highest  military  honours?  That  a  sup- 
posedly friendly  nation  would  fill  another  land 


SHANDYGAFF  75 

with  spies — even  among  the  accredited  envoys  of 
diplomacy? 

Sadly  this  man  thought  of  the  long  painful  fight 
he  had  made  to  keep  one  nation  at  least  out  of  the 
tragic,  barbaric  struggle.  Giving  due  honour  to 
convinced  militarist  and  sincere  pacifist,  his  own 
course  was  still  different.  That  his  country,  dis- 
regarding the  old  fetishes  of  honour  and  insult, 
should  stand  solidly  for  humanity;  should  endure 
all  things,  suffer  all  things,  for  humanity's  sake; 
should  seek  to  bind  up  the  wounds  and  fill  the  starv- 
ing mouths.*  That  one  nation — not  because  she 
was  weak,  but  because  she  was  strong — should,  with 
God's  help,  make  a  firm  stand  for  peace  and  show 
to  all  mankind  that  force  can  never  conquer  force. 

"A  nation  can  be  so  right  that  it  should  be  too 
proud  to  fight."  Magnificent  words,  true  words, 
which  one  day  would  re-echo  in  history  as  the 
utterance  of  a  man  years  in  advance  of  his  time — 
but  what  rolling  thunders  of  vituperation  they 
had  cost  him!  Too  proud  to  fight!  .  .  .If 
only  it  had  been  possible  to  carry  through  to  the 
end  this  message  from  Judea! 

But,  little  by  little,  and  with  growing  anguish, 
he  had  seen  that  the  nation  must  take  another 
step.  Little  by  little,  as  the  inhuman  frenzies  of 
warfare  had  grown  in  savagery,  inflicting  unspeak- 
able horror  on  non-combatants,  women  and  chil- 


76  SHANDYGAFF 

dren,  he  had  realized  that  his  cherished  dream 
must  be  laid  aside.  For  the  first  time  in  human 
history  a  great  nation  had  dared  to  waive  pride, 
honour,  and — with  bleeding  heart — even  the  lives 
of  its  own  for  the  hope  of  humanity  and  civiliza- 
tion. With  face  buried  in  his  hands  he  reviewed 
the  long  catalogue  of  atrocities  on  the  seas.  He 
could  feel  his  cheeks  grow  hot  against  his  palms. 
Arabic,  Lusitania,  Persia,  Laconia,  Falaba,  Gut- 
flight,  Sussex,  California — the  names  were  etched 
in  his  brain  in  letters  of  grief.  And  now,  since 
the  "barred-zone"  decree  .  .  . 

He  straightened  in  his  chair.  Like  a  garment 
the  mood  of  anguish  slipped  from  him.  He  snap- 
ped on.  the  green  desk  light  and  turned  to  his  per- 
sonal typewriter.  As  he  did  so,  from  some  old 
student  day  a  phrase  flashed  into  his  mind — the 
words  of  Martin  Luther,  the  Thuringian  peasant 
and  university  professor,  who  four  hundred  years 
before  had  nailed  his  theses  on  the  church  door 
at  Wittenberg: 

"Gott  helfe  mir,  ich  kann  nicht  anders." 
They  chimed  a  solemn  refrain  in  his  heart  as  he 
inserted  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper  behind  the  roller 
and  resumed  his  writing.     .     .     . 

"With  a  profound  sense  of  the  solemn  and  even 
tragical  character  of  the  step  I  am  taking  and  of  the 


SHANDYGAFF  77 

grave  responsibilities  which  it  involves.  ...  7 
advise  that  the  Congress  declare  the  recent  course  of 
the  Imperial  German  Government  to  be  in  fact  noth- 
ing less  than  war  against  the  Government  and  people 
of  the  United  States.  .  .  " 

The  typewriter  clicked  industriously.  The  face 
bent  intently  over  the  keys  was  grave  and  quiet, 
but  as  the  paper  unrolled  before  him  some  of  his 
sadness  seemed  to  pass  away.  A  vision  of  his 
country,  no  longer  divided  in  petty  schisms, 
engrossed  in  material  pursuits,  but  massed  in  one 
by  the  force  and  fury  of  a  valiant  ideal,  came  into 
his  mind. 

"It  is  for  humanity,"  he  whispered  to  himself. 
"  Ich  kann  nicht  anders.  .  .  ." 

"  We  have  no  quarrel  with  the  German  people.  We 
have  no  feeling  toward  them  but  one  of  sympathy  and 
friendship.  It  was  not  upon  their  impulse  that  their 
government  acted  in  entering  this  war.  It  was  not 
with  their  previous  knowledge  or  approval.  .  .  . 
Self -governed  nations  do  not  fill  their  neighbour  states 
with  spies,  or  set  the  course  of  intrigue  to  bring  about 
some  critical  posture  of  affairs  which  will  give  them 
an  opportunity  to  strike  and  make  conquest. 
A  steadfast  concert  for  peace  can  never  be  maintained 
except  by  a  partnership  of  democratic  nations.  .  .  . 


78  SHANDYGAFF 

Only  free  peoples  can  hold  their  purpose  and 
their  honour  steady  to  a  common  end  and  prefer  the 
interests,  of  mankind  to  any  narrow  interest  of  their 


own.9' 


With  the  gathering  of  the  dusk  the  rain  had 
stopped.  He  rose  from  his  chair  and  walked  to 
the  window.  The  sky  had  cleared ;  in  the  west  shone 
a  faint  band  of  clear  apple  green  in  which  burned 
one  lucent  star.  Distantly  he  could  hear  the 
murmur  of  the  city  like  the  pulsing  heartbeat  of 
the  nation.  As  often,  in  moments  of  tension,  he 
seemed  to  feel  the  whole  vast  stretch  of  the  con- 
tinent throbbing;  the  yearning  breast  of  the  land 
trembling  with  energy;  the  great  arch  of  sky, 
spanning  from  coast  to  coast,  quiver  with  power 
unused.  The  murmur  of  little  children  in  their 
cradles,  the  tender  words  of  mothers,  the  footbeat 
of  men  on  the  pavements  of  ten  thousand  cities, 
the  flags  leaping  in  air  from  high  buildings,  ships 
putting  out  to  sea  with  gunners  at  their  sterns — in 
one  aching  synthesis  the  vastness  and  dearness 
and  might  of  his  land  came  to  him.  A  mingled 
nation,  indeed,  of  various  and  clashing  breeds; 
but  oh,  with  what  a  tradition  to  uphold! 

Words  were  forming  in  his  mind  as  he  watched 
the  fading  sky,  and  he  returned  quietly  to  the 
typewriter: 


SHANDYGAFF  79 

« 

"  We  are  glad  to  fight  thus  for  the  ultimate  peace  of 
the  world  and  for  the  liberation  of  its  peoples,  the 
German  peoples  included.  .  .  .  The  world  must 
be  made  safe  for  democracy." 

The  world  must  be  made  safe  for  democracy! 
As  the  wires  leaped  and  the  little  typewriter  spoke 
under  the  pressure  of  his  strong  fingers,  scenes 
passed  in  his  mind  of  the  happy,  happy  Europe 
he  had  known  in  old  wander  days,  years  before. 

He  could  see  the  sun  setting  down  dark  aisles 
of  the  Black  Forest;  the  German  peasants  at  work 
in  the  fields;  the  simple,  cordial  friendliness  of  that 
lovely  land.  He  remembered  French  villages 
beside  slow-moving  rivers;  white  roads  in  a  hot 
shimmer  of  sun;  apple  orchards  of  the  Moselle. 
And  England — dear  green  England,  fairest  of  all 
—the  rich  blue  line  of  the  Chiltern  Hills,  and 
Buckinghamshire  beech  woods  bronze  and  yellow 
in  the  autumn.  He  remembered  thatched  cot- 
tages where  he  had  bicycled  for  tea,  and  the  naive 
rustic  folk  who  had  made  him  welcome. 

What  deviltry  had  taken  all  these  peaceful 
people,  gripped  them  and  maddened  them,  set 
them  at  one  another's  throats?  Millions  of 
children,  millions  of  mothers,  millions  of  humble 
Corkers,  happy  in  the  richness  of  life — where  were 
they  now?  Life,  innocent  human  life — the  most 


80  SHANDYGAFF 

precious  thing  we  know  or  dream  of,  freedom  to 
work  for  a  living  and  win  our  own  joys  of  home 
and  love  and  food — what  Black  Death  had  mad- 
dened the  world  with  its  damnable  seeds  of  hate? 
Would  life  ever  be  free  and  sweet  again? 

The  detestable  sultry  horror  of  it  all  broke 
upon 'him  anew  in  a  tide  of  anguish.  No,  the 
world  could  never  be  the  same  again  in  the  lives 
of  men  now  living.  But  for  the  sake  of  the  gene- 
rations to  come— he  thought  of  his  own  tiny 
grandchildren — for  the  love  of  God  and  the  mercy 
of  mankind,  let  this  madness  be  crushed.  If  his 
country  must  enter  the  war  let  it  be  only  for  the 
love  and  service  of  humanity.  "It  is  a  fearful 
thing,"  he  thought,  "but  the  right  is  more  precious 
than  peace." 

Sad  at  heart  he  turned  again  to  the  typewriter, 
and  the  keys  clicked  off  the  closing  words : 

"  To  such  a  task  we  can  dedicate  our  lives  and  our 
fortunes,  everything  that  we  are  and  everything  that 
we  have,  with  the  pride  of  those  who  know  that  the 
day  has  come  when  America  is  privileged  to  spend 
her  blood  and  her  might  for  the  principles  that  gave 
her  birth  and  happiness  and  the  peace  which  she  has 
treasured." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  stiff  and  weary. 
His  head  ached  hotly.  With  elbows  on  the  desk 


SHANDYGAFF  81 

he  covered  his  forehead  and  eyes  with  his  hands. 
All  the  agony,  the  bitterness,  the  burden  of  pre- 
ceding days  swept  over  him,  but  behind  it  was  a 
cool  and  cleansing  current  of  peace.  "  Ich  kann 
nicht  anders"  he  whispered. 

Then,  turning  swiftly  to  the  machine,  he  typed 
rapidly : 

"God  helping  her,  she  can  do  no  other.9' 


THE  HEAD  OF  THE  FIRM 

HE  ALWAYS  lost  his  temper  when  the  for- 
eign mail  came  in.  Sitting  in  his  private 
room,  which  overlooked  a  space  of  gardens 
where  bright  red  and  yellow  flowers  were  planted 
in  rhomboids,  triangles,  parallelograms,  and  other 
stiff  and  ugly  figures,  he  would  glance  hastily 
through  the  papers  and  magazines.  He  was  fa- 
miliar with  several  foreign  languages,  and  would 
skim  through  the  text.  Then  he  would  pound  the 
table  with  his  fist,  walk  angrily  about  the  floor, 
and  tear  the  offensive  journals  into  strips.  For 
very  often  he  found  in  these  papers  from  abroad 
articles  or  cartoons  that  were  most  annoying  to  him, 
and  very  detrimental  to  the  business  of  his  firm. 

His  assistants  tried  to  keep  foreign  publications 
away  from  him,  but  he  was  plucky  in  his  own  harsh 
way.  He  insisted  on  seeing  them.  Always  the 
same  thing  happened.  His  face  would  grow  grim, 
the  seam-worn  forehead  would  corrugate,  the 
muscles  of  his  jaw  throb  nervously.  His  gray 
eyes  would  flash — and  the  fist  come  down  heavily 
on  the  mahogany  desk. 

When  a  man  is  nearly  sixty  and  of  a  full-blooded 
82 


SHANDYGAFF  83 

physique,  it  is  not  well  for  him  to  have  these  fre- 
quent pulsations  of  rage.  But  he  had  always 
found  it  hard  to  control  his  temper.  He  some- 
times remembered  what  a  schoolmaster  had  said 
to  him  at  Cassel,  forty-five  years  %bef ore:  "He 
who  loses  his  temper  will  lose  everything." 

But  he  must  be  granted  great  provocation. 
He  had  always  had  difficulties  to  contend  with. 
His  father  was  an  invalid,  and  he  himself  was  puny 
in  childhood;  infantile  paralysis  withered  his  left 
arm  when  he  was  an  infant;  but  in  spite  of  these 
handicaps  he  had  made  himself  a  vigorous  swim- 
mer, rider,  and  yachtsman;  he  could  shoot  better 
with  one  arm  than  most  sportsmen  with  two. 
After  leaving  the  university  he  served  in  the 
army,  but  at  his  father's  death  the  management 
of  the  vast  family  business  came  into  his  hands. 
He  was  then  twenty-eight. 

No  one  can  question  the  energy  with  which  he 
set  himself  to  carry  on  the  affairs  of  the  firm. 
Generous,  impetuous,  indiscreet,  stubborn,  pug- 
nacious, his  blend  of  qualities  held  many  of  the 
elements  of  a  successful  man  of  business.  His  first 
act  was  to  dismiss  the  confidential  and  honoured 
assistant  who  *  had  guided  both  his  father  and 
grandfather  in  the  difficult  years  of  the  firm's 
growth.  But  the  new  executive  was  determined 
to  run  the  business  his  own  way.  Disregarding 


84  SHANDYGAFF 

criticism,  ridicule,  or  flattery,  he  declared  it  his 
mission  to  spread  the  influence  of  the  business 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  "We  must  have  our 
place  in  the  sun,"  he  said;  and  announced  himself 
as  the  divine  instrument  through  whom  this  would 
be  accomplished.  He  made  it  perfectly  plain 
that  no  man's  opposition  would  balk  him  in  the 
management  of  the  firm's  affairs.  One  of  his 
most  famous  remarks  was:  "Considering  myself 
as  the  instrument  of  the  Lord,  without  heeding 
the  views  and  opinions  of  the  day,  I  go  my  way." 
The  board  of  directors  censured  him  for  this,  but 
he  paid  little  heed. 

The  growth  of  the  business  was  enormous; 
nothing  like  it  had  been  seen  in  the  world's  history. 
Branch  offices  were  opened  all  over'  the  globe. 
Vessels  bearing  the  insignia  of  the  company  were 
seen  on  every  ocean.  He  himself  with  his  accus- 
tomed energy  travelled  everywhere  to  advance 
the  interests  of  trade.  In  England,  Russia, 
Denmark,  Italy,  Austria,  Turkey,  the  Holy 
Land,  he  made  personal  visits  to  the  firm's  best 
customers.  He  sent  his  brother  to  America  to 
spread  the  goodwill  of  the  business;  and  other 
members  of  the  firm  to  France,  Holland,  China, 
and  Japan.  Telegram  after  telegram  kept  the 
world's  cables  busy  as  he  distributed  congratula- 
tions, condolences,  messages  of  one  kind  and  an- 


SHANDYGAFF  85 

other  to  foreign  merchants.  His  publicity  depart- 
ment never  rested.  He  employed  famous  scien- 
tists and  inventors  to  improve  the  products  of  his 
factories.  He  reared  six  sons  to  carry  on  the 
business  after  him. 

This  is  no  place  to  record  minutely  the  million 
activities  of  thirty  years  that  made  his  business 
one  of  the  greatest  on  earth.  It  is  all  written 
down  in  history.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  those  years 
did  not  go  by  without  sorrows.  He  was  afflicted 
with  an  incurable  disease.  His  temperament, 
like  high  tension  steel,  was  of  a  brittle  quality; 
it  had  the  tendency  to  snap  under  great  strains. 
Living  always  at  fever  pitch,  sparing  himself  no 
fatigue  of  body  or  soul,  the  whirring  dynamo  of 
energy  in  him  often  showed  signs  of  overstress. 

It  is  hard  to  conceive  what  he  must  have  gone 
through  in  those  last  months.  You  must  remem- 
ber the  extraordinary  conditions  in  his  line  of 
business  caused  by  the  events  of  recent  years. 
He  had  lived  to  see  his  old  friends,  merchants 
with  whom  he  had  dealt  for  decades,  some  of  them 
the  foreign  representatives  of  his  own  firm,  out 
of  a  job  and  hunted  from  their  homes  by  creditors. 
He  had  lived  to  realize  that  the  commodity  he 
and  his  family  had  been  manufacturing  for  gen- 
erations was  out  of  date,  a  thing  no  longer  needed 
or  wanted  by  the  modern  world.  The  strain  which 


86  SHANDYGAFF 

his  mind  was  enduring  is  shown  by  the  febrile 
and  unbalanced  tone  of  one  of  his  letters,  sent 
to  a  member  of  his  own  family  who  ran  one  of  the 
company's  branch  offices  but  was  forced  to  resign 
by  bankruptcy: 

"I  have  heard  with  wrath  of  the  infamous 
outrage  committed  by  our  common  enemies  upon 
you  and  upon  your  business.  I  assure  you  that 
your  deprivation  can  be  only  temporary.  The 
mailed  fist,  with  further  aid  from  Almighty  God, 
will  restore  you  to  your  office,  of  which  no  man  by 
right  can  rob  you.  The  company  will  wreak 
vengeance  on  those  who  have  dared  so  insolently 
to  lay  their  criminal  hands  on  you.  We  hope  to 
welcome  you  at  the  earliest  opportunity." 

The  failure  of  his  business  was  the  great  drama 
of  the  century;  and  it  is  worth  while  to  remember 
what  it  was  that  killed  it — and  him.  While  the 
struggle  was  still  on  there  were  many  arguments 
as  to  what  would  bring  matters  to  an  end;  some 
cunning  invention,  some  new  patent  that  would 
outwit  the  methods  of  his  firm.  But  after  all  it 
was  nothing  more  startling  than  the  printing  press 
and  the  moral  of  the  whole  matter  may  be  put  in 
those  fine  old  words,  "But  above  all  things,  truth 
beareth  away  the  victory."  Little  by  little,  the 
immense  power  of  the  printed  word  became  too 
strong  for  him.  Rave  and  fume  as  he  might,  and 


SHANDYGAFF  87 

hammer  the  mahogany  desk,  the  rolling  thunders 
of  a  world  massed  against  him  cracked  even  his 
stiff  will.  Little  by  little  the  plain  truth  sifted  into 
the  minds  and  hearts  of  the  thousands  working 
in  his  huge  organization.  In  Russia,  in  Greece, 
in  Spain,  in  Austria,  in  China,  in  Mexico,  he  saw 
men  bursting  the  shells  of  age  and  custom  that 
had  cramped  them.  One  by  one  his  competitors 
adopted  the  new  ideas,  or  had  them  forced  upon 
them;  profit-sharing,  workmen's  insurance,  the 
right  of  free  communities  to  live  their  own  lives. 

Deep  in  his  heart  he  must  have  known  he  was 
doomed  to  fail,  but  that  perverse  demon  of 
strong-headed  pugnacity  was  trenched  deep  within 
him.  He  was  always  a  fighter,  but  his  face, 
though  angry,  obstinate,  proud,  was  still  not 
an  evil  face.  He  broke  down  while  there  was 
still  some  of  the  business  to  save  and  some  of  the 
goodwill  intact. 

It  was  the  printing  press  that  decided  it:  the 
greatest  engine  in  the  world,  to  which  submarines 
and  howitzers  and  airplanes  are  but  wasteful  toys. 
For  when  the  printing  presses  are  united  the 
planet  may  buck  and  yaw,  but  she  comes  into  line 
at  last.  A  million  inky  cylinders,  roaring  in  chorus, 
were  telling  him  the  truth.  When  his  assistants 
found  him,  on  his  desk  lay  a  half -ripped  magazine 
where  he  had  tried  to  tear  up  a  mocking  cartoon. 


88  SHANDYGAFF 

I  think  that  as  he  sat  at  his  table  in  those  last 
days,  staring  with  embittered  eyes  at  the  savage 
words  and  pictures  that  came  to  him  from  over 
the  seven  seas,  he  must  have  had  some  vision  of 
the  shadowy  might  of  the  press,  of  the  vast  irresis- 
tible urge  of  public  opinion,  that  hung  like  dark 
wings  above  his  head.  For  little  by  little  the 
printed  word  incarnates  itself  in  power,  and  in 
ways  undreamed  of  makes  itself  felt.  Little  by 
little  the  wills  of  common  men,  coalescing,  running 
together  like  beads  of  mercury  on  a  plate,  quiver- 
ing into  rhythm  and  concord,  become  a  mighty 
force  that  may  be  ever  so  impalpable,  but  grinds 
empires  to  powder.  Mankind  suffers  hideous 
wrongs  and  cruel  setbacks,  but  when  once  the 
collective  purpose  of  humanity  is  summoned  to  a 
righteous  end,  it  moves  onward  like  the  tide  up  a 
harbour. 

The  struggle  was  long  and  bitter.  His  superb 
organization,  with  such  colossal  resources  for 
human  good,  lavished  in  the  fight  every  energy 
known  to  man.  For  a  time  it  seemed  as  though 
he  would  pull  through.  His  managers  had  fore- 
seen every  phase  of  this  unprecedented  com- 
petition, and  his  warehouses  were  stocked.  But 
slowly  the  forces  of  his  opponents  began  to  focus 
themselves. 

Then  even  his  own  employees  suspected  the 


SHANDYGAFF  89 

truth.  His  agents,  solicitors,  and  salesmen,  scat- 
tered all  over  the  globe,  realized  that  one  com- 
pany cannot  twist  the  destiny  of  mankind.  He 
felt  the  huge  fabric  of  his  power  quiver  and  creak. 
The  business  is  now  in  the  hands  of  the  execu- 
tors, pending  a  reorganization. 


17  HERIOT  ROW 

THERE  is  a  small  black  notebook  into  which 
I  look  once  or  twice  a  year  to  refresh  my 
memory  of  a  carnal  and  spiritual  pil- 
grimage to  Edinburgh,  made  with  Mifflin  McGill 
(upon  whose  head  be  peace)  in  the  summer  of 
1911.  It  is  a  testament  of  light-hearted  youth, 
savoury  with  the  unindentured  joys  of  twenty -one 
and  the  grand  literary  passion.  Would  that  one 
might  again  steer  Shotover  (dearest  of  pushbikes) 
along  the  Banbury  Road,  and  see  Mifflin's  lean 
shanks  twirl  up  the  dust  on  the  way  to  Stratford ! 
Never  was  more  innocent  merriment  spread  upon 
English  landscape.  When  I  die,  bury  the  black 
notebook  with  me. 

That  notebook  is  memorable  also  in  a  statis- 
tical way,  and  perchance  may  serve  future  his- 
torians as  a  document  proving  the  moderate  cost 
of  wayfaring  in  those  halcyon  days.  Nothing  in 
Mr.  Pepys'  diary  is  more  interesting  than  his  me- 
ticulous record  of  what  his  amusements  cost  him. 
Mayhap  some  future  economist  will  pore  upon 
these  guileless  confessions.  For  in  the  black 
memorandum  book  I  succeeded,  for  almost  the 

90 


SHANDYGAFF  91 

only  time  in  my  life,  in  keeping  an  accurate  record 
of  the  lapse  of  coin  during  nine  whole  days.  I 
shall  deposit  the  document  with  the  Congressional 
Library  in  Washington  for  future  annalists;  in  the 
meantime  I  make  no  excuse  for  recounting  the 
items  of  the  first  sixty  hours.  Let  no  one  take 
amiss  the  frequent  entries  marked  "cider." 
July,  1911,  was  a  hot  month  and  a  dusty,  and  we 
were  biking  fifty  miles  the  day.  Please  reckon 
exchange  at  two  cents  per  penny. 

£  s.  d 

July  16  pint  cider    .......  4 

^  pint  cider       ......  ij 

lunch  at  Banbury       ....  22 

pint  cider  at  Ettington     ...  3 

supper  at  Stratford     ....  13 

stamp  and  postcard    ....  2 


July  17  Postcards  and  stamps      ...  9 

pencil     ........  1 

Warwick  Castle     .....  2  - 

cider  at  the  Bear  and  Baculus 
(which  Mifflin  would  call  the 

Bear  and  Bacillus)  ....  -2 

Bowling  Green  Inn,  bed  and 

breakfast      ......  32 

Puncture     .......  1  - 

Lunch,  Kenilworth     ....  16 

Kenilworth  Castle  6 


SHANDYGAFF 

Postcards         ......  4 

Lemonade,  Coventry        ...  4 

Cider   ........  2 

Supper,  Tamworth,  The  Castle 

Hotel       .......  21 


16 


July  18  Johnson  house,  Lichfield  .  .  3 

cider  at  The  Three  Crowns  .  .  4r 

postcard  and  shave  ....  4 
The  King's  Head,  bed  and 

breakfast      ......  37 

cider      ........  2 

tip  on  road*     ......  1 

lunch,  Uttoxeter          ....  13 

cider,  Ashbourne,  The  Green 

Man        .......  3 

landlord's  drink,  Ashbourne  f  .  1 

supper,  Newhaven  House,  .  1  - 

lemonade,  Buxton  ...  3 


TOTAL  £  1-4-1 

($5.78) 

That  is  to  say,  24  bob  for  two  and  a  half  days. 
We  used  to  reckon  that  ten  shillings  a  day  would 
do  us  very  nicely,  barring  luxuries  and  emergen- 

*As  far  as  I  can  remember,  this  was  a  gratuity  to  a  rather  tarnished  subject  who 
directed  us  at  a  fork  in  the  road,  near  a  railway  crossing. 

tThis  was  a  copper  well  lavished;  for  the  publican,  a  ventripotent  person  with  a 
liquid  and  glamorous  brown  eye,  told  us  excellent  gossip  about  Dr.  Johnson  and 
George  Eliot,  both  heroes  in  that  neighbourhood.  "Yes,"  we  said,  "that  man  Elic' 
was  a  great  writer,"  and  he  agreed. 


SHANDYGAFF  93 

cies.  We  attained  a  zealous  proficiency  in  reck- 
oning shillings  and  pence,  and  our  fervour  in 
posting  our  ledgers  would  have  gladdened  a  firm 
of  auditors.  I  remember  lying  on  the  coping  of 
a  stone  bridge  over  the  water  of  Teviot  near 
Hawick,  admiring  the  green-brown  tint  of  the 
swift  stream  bickering  over  the  stones.  Mifflin 
was  writing  busily  in  his  notebook  on  the  other 
side  of  the  bridge.  I  thought  to  myself,  "Bless 
the  lad,  he's  jotting  down  some  picturesque  notes 
of  something  that  has  struck  his  romantic  eye." 
And  just  then  he  spoke — "Four  and  eleven  pence 
half -penny  so  far  to-day!" 

Would  I  could  retrogress  over  the  devious  and 
enchanting  itinerary.  The  McGill  route  from 
Oxford  to  Auld  Reekie  is  417  miles;  it  was  the 
afternoon  of  the  ninth  day  when  with  thumping 
hearts  we  saw  Arthur's  Seat  from  a  dozen  miles 
away.  Our  goal  was  in  sight! 

There  was  a  reason  for  all  this  pedalling  mad- 
ness. Ever  since  the  days  when  we  had  wan- 
dered by  Darby  Creek,  reading  R.  L.  S.  aloud  to 
one  another,  we  had  planned  this  trip  to  the  gray 
metropolis  of  the  north.  A  score  of  sacred  names 
had  beckoned  us,  the  haunts  of  the  master.  We 
knew  them  better  than  any  other  syllables  in  the 
world.  Heriot  Row,  Princes  Street,  the  Calton 
Hill,  Duddingston  Loch,  Antigua  Street,  the 


94  SHANDYGAFF 

Water  of  Leith,  Colin  ton,  Swanston,  the  Pentland 
Hills — O  my  friends,  do  those  names  mean  to 
you  what  they  did  to  us?  Then  you  are  one  of 
the  brotherhood — what  was  to  us  then  the  sweetest 
brotherhood  in  the  world! 

In  a  quiet  little  hotel  in  Rutland  Square  we 
found  decent  lodging,  in  a  large  chamber  which 
was  really  Jhe  smoking  room  of  the  house.  The 
city  was  crowded  with  tourists  on  account  of  an 
expected  visit  of  the  King  and  Queen;  every  other 
room  in  the  hotel  was  occupied.  Greatly  to  our 
satisfaction  we  were  known  as  "the  smoking- 
room  gentlemen"  throughout  our  stay.  Our 
windows  opened  upon  ranks  of  corridor-cars 
lying  on  the  Caledonian  Railway  sidings,  and  the 
clink  and  jar  of  buffers  and  coupling  irons  were 
heard  all  night  long.  I  seem  to  remember  that 
somewhere  in  his  letters  R.  L.  S.  speaks  of  that 
same  sound.  He  knew  Rutland  Square  well,  for 
his  boyhood  friend  Charles  Baxter  lived  there. 
Writing  from  Samoa  in  later  years  he  says  that 
one  memory  stands  out  above  all  others  of  his 
youth — Rutland  Square.  And  while  that  was  of 
course  only  the  imaginative  fervour  of  the  mo- 
ment, yet  we  were  glad  to  know  that  in  that  quiet 
little  cul  de  sac  behind  the  railway  terminal  we 
were  on  ground  well  loved  by  Tusitala. 

The  first  evening,  and  almost  every  twilight 


SHANDYGAFF  95 

while  we  were  in  Auld  Reekie,  we  found  our  way 
to  17  Heriot  Row — famous  address,  which  had 
long  been  as  familiar  to  us  as  our  own.  I  think 
we  expected  to  find  a  tablet  on  the  house  com- 
memorating the  beloved  occupant;  but  no;  to  our 
surprise  it  was  dark,  dusty,  and  tenantless.  A 
sign  TO  SELL  was  prominent.  To  take  the  name 
of  the  agent  was  easy.  A  great  thought  struck 
us.  Could  we  not  go  over  the  house  in  the  char- 
acter of  prospective  purchasers?  Mifflin  and  I 
went  back  to  our  smoking  room  and  concocted  a 
genteel  letter  to  Messrs.  Guild  and  Shepherd, 
Writers  to  the  Signet. 

Promptly  came  a  reply   (Scots  business  men 
answer  at  once). 

16  Charlotte  Square 
Edinburgh 
26th  July,  1911 
DEAR  SIR, 

17  HERIOT  ROW 

We  have  received  your  letter  regarding  this  house.     The 
house  can  be  seen  at  any  time,  and  if  you  will  let  us  know 
when  you  wish  to  view  it  we  shall  arrange  to  have  it  opened. 
We  are, 

Yours  faithfully, 

GUILD  AND  SHEPHERD. 

Our  hearts   were  uplifted,   but  now  we  were 
mightily  embarrassed  as  to  the  figure  we  would  cut 


90  SHANDYGAFF 

before  the  Writers  to  the  Signet.  You  must 
remember  that  we  were  two  young  vagabonds 
in  the  earliest  twenties,  travelling  with  slim  knap- 
sacks, dnd  much  soiled  by  a  fortnight  on  the  road. 
I  was  in  knickerbockers  and  khaki  shirt;  Mifflin 
in  greasy  gray  flannels  and  subfusc  Norfolk. 
Our  only  claims  to  gentility  were  our  monocles. 
Always  take  a  monocle  on  a  vagabond  tour:  it  is 
a  never-failing  source  of  amusement  and  passport 
of  gentility.  No  matter  how  ragged  you  are,  if 
you  can  screw  a  pane  in  your  eye  you  can  awe  the 
yokel  or  the  tradesman. 

The  private  records  of  the  firm  of  Guild  and 
Shepherd  doubtless  show  that  on  Friday,  July 
28,  1911,  one  of  their  polite  young  attaches, 
appearing  as  per  appointment  at  17  Heriot  Row, 
was  met  by  two  eccentric  young  gentlemen,  clad 
in  dirty  white  flannel  hats,  waterproof  capes,  each 
with  an  impressive  monocle.  Let  it  be  said  to 
the  honour  of  the  attache  in  question  that  he 
showed  no  symptoms  of  surprise  or  alarm.  We 
explained,  I  think,  that  we  were  scouting  for  my 
father,  who  (it  was  alleged)  greatly  desired  to 
settle  down  in  Edinburgh.  And  we  had  pres- 
ence of  mind  enough  to  enquire  about  plumbing, 
stationary  wash-tubs,  and  the  condition  of  the 
flues.  I  wish  I  could  remember  what  rent  was 
quoted. 


SHANDYGAFF  97 

He  showed  us  all  through  the  house;  and  you 
may  imagine  that  we  stepped  softly  and  with  beat- 
ing hearts.  Here  we  were  on  the  very  track  of. 
the  Magician  himself:  his  spirit  whispered  in  the 
lonely  rooms.  We  imagined  R.  L.  S.  as  a  little 
child,  peering  from  the  windows  at  dusk  to  see 
Leerie  light  the  street-lamps  outside — a  quaint, 
thin,  elvish  face  with  shining  brown  eyes;  or  held 
up  in  illness  by  Cummie  to  see  the  gracious  dawn 
heralded  by  oblongs  of  light  in  the  windows  across 
the  Queen  Street  gardens.  We  saw  the  college 
lad,  tall,  with  tweed  coat  and  cigarette,  returning 
to  Heriot  Row  with  an  armful  of  books,  in  sad  or 
sparkling  mood.  The  house  was  dim  and  dusty: 
a  fine  entrance  hall,  large  dining  room  facing  the 
street — and  we  imagined  Louis  and  his  parents 
at  breakfast.  Above  this,  the  drawing  room, 
floored  with  parquet  oak,  a  spacious  and  attrac- 
tive chamber.  Above  this  again,  the  nursery,  and 
opening  off  it  the  little  room  where  faithful  Cum- 
mie slept.  But  in  vain  we  looked  for  some  sign 
or  souvenir  of  the  entrancing  spirit.  The  room 
that  echoed  to  his  childish  glee,  that  heard  his 
smothered  sobs  in  the  endless  nights  of  childish 
pain,  the  room  where  he  scribbled  and  brooded 
and  burst  into  gusts  of  youth's  passionate  outcry, 
is  now  silent  and  forlorn. 

With  what  subtly  mingled  feelings  we  peered 


98  SHANDYGAFF 

from  room  to  room,  seeing  everything,  and  yet 
not  daring  to  give  ourselves  away  to  the  courteous 
young  agent.  And  what  was  it  he  said? — "This 
was  the  house  of  Lord  So-and-so"  (I  forget  the 
name)—  "and  incidentally,  Robert  Louis  Steven- 
son lived  here  once.  His  signature  occurs  once  or 
twice  in  the  deeds." 

Incidentally!     .     .     . 

Like  many  houses  in  Auld  Reekie,  17  Heriot 
Row  is  built  on  a  steep  slant  of  ground,  so  that  the 
rear  of  the  house  is  a  storey  or  more  higher  than 
the  face.  We  explored  the  kitchens,  laundries, 
store-rooms,  and  other  "  offices  "  with  care,  imagin- 
ing that  little  "Smoutie"  may  have  run  here  and 
there  in  search  of  tid-bits  from  the  cook.  Visions 
of  that  childhood,  fifty  years  before,  were  almost 
as  real  as  our  own.  We  seemed  to  hear  the 
young  treble  of  his  voice.  That  house  was  the 
home  of  the  Stevensons  for  thirty  years  (1857- 
1887) — surely  even  the  thirty  years  that  have 
gone  by  since  Thomas  Stevenson  died  cannot  have 
laid  all  those  dear  ghosts  we  conjured  up ! 

We  thanked  our  guide  and  took  leave  of  him. 
If  the  firm  of  Guild  and  Shepherd  should  ever  see 
this,  surely  they  will  forgive  our  innocent  decep- 
tion, for  the  honour  of  R.  L.  S.  I  wonder  if  any 
one  has  yet  put  a  tablet  on  the  house?  If  not, 
Mifflin  and  I  will  do  so,  some  day. 


SHANDYGAFF  99 

In  the  evenings  we  used  to  wander  up  to  Heriot 
Row  in  the  long  Northern  dusk,  to  sit  on  the  front 
steps  of  number  17  waiting  for  Leerie  to  come  and 
light  the  famous  lamp  which  still  stands  on  the 
pavement  in  front  of  the  dining-room  windows: 

For  we  are  very  lucky,  with  a  lamp  before  the  door, 
And  Leerie  stops  to  light  it  as  he  lights  so  many  more; 
And  O!  before  you  hurry  by  with  ladder  and  with  light, 
O  Leerie,  see  a  little  child  and  nod  to  him  to-night! 

But  no  longer  does  Leerie  "with  lantern  and 
with  ladder  come  posting  up  the  street."  Now- 
adays he  carries  a  long  pole  bearing  a  flame  cun- 
ningly sheltered  in  a  brass  socket.  But  the 
Leerie  of  1911  ("Leerie-light-the-lamps"  is  a 
generic  nickname  for  all  lamplighters  in  Scotland) 
was  a  pleasant  fellow  even  if  ladderless,  and  we 
used  to  have  a  cigar  ready  for  him  when  he 
reached  17.  We  told  him  of  R.  L.  S.,  of  whom 
he  had  vaguely  heard,  and  explained  the  sanctity 
of  that  particular  lamp.  He  in  turn  talked  freely 
of  his  craft,  and  learning  that  we  were  Americans 
he  told  us  of  his  two  sisters  "in  Pennsylvania,  at 
21  Thorn  Street."  He  seemed  to  think  Penn- 
sylvania a  town,  but  finally  we  learned  that  the 
Misses  Leerie  lived  in  Sewickley  where  they  were 
doing  well,  and  sending  back  money  to  the  "kid- 
dies. "  Good  Leerie,  I  wonder  do  you  still  light  the 


100  SHANDYGAFF 

lamps  on  Heriot  Row,  or  have  you  too  seen  redder 
beacons  on  Flanders  fields? 

One  evening  I  remember  we  fell  into  discussion 
whether  the  lamp-post  was  still  the  same  one  that 
R.  L.  S.  had  known.  We  were  down  on  hands  and 
knees  on  the  pavement,  examining  the  base  of  the 
pillar  by  match-light  in  search  of  possible  dates. 
A  very  seedy  and  disreputable  looking  man 
passed,  evidently  regarding  us  with  apprehension 
as  detectives.  Mifflin,  never  at  a  loss,  remarked 
loudly  "No,  I  see  no  footprints  here,"  and  as  the 
ragged  one  passed  hastily  on  with  head  twisted 
over  his  shoulder,  we  followed  him.  At  the  corner 
of  Howe  Street  he  broke  into  an  uneasy  shuffle, 
and  Mifflin  turned  a  great  laugh  into  a  Scotland 
Yard  sneeze. 

Howe  Street  crosses  Heriot  Row  at  right  angles, 
only  a  few  paces  'from  No.  17.  It  dips  sharply 
downhill  toward  the  Water  of  Leith,  and  Mifflin 
and  I  used  to  stand  at  the  corner  and  wonder 
just  where  took  place  the  adventure  with  the  lame 
boy  which  R.  L.  S.  once  described  when  setting 
down  some  recollections  of  childhood* 

In  Howe  street,  round  the  corner  from  our  house,  I  often 
saw  a  lame  boy  of  rather  a  rough  and  poor  appearance.  He 
had  one  leg  much  shorter  than  the  other,  and  wallowed  in  his 
walk,  in  consequence,  like  a  ship  in  a  seaway.  I  had  read 
more  than  enough,  in  tracts  and  goody  story  books,  of  the 


SHANDYGAFF  101 

.solation  of  the  infirm;  and  after  many  days  of  bashfulness 
and  hours  of  consideration,  I  finally  accosted  him,  sheepishly 
•°nough  I  daresay,  in  these  words:  "Would  you  like  to 
^lay  with  me?"  I  remember  the  expression,  which 
Bounds  exactly  like  a  speech  from  one  of  the  goody  books 
that  had  nerved  me  to  the  venture.  But  the  answer 
was  not  he  one  I  had  anticipated,  for  it  was  a  blast  of  oaths. 
I  need  not  say  how  fast  I  fled.  This  incident  was  the  more 
to  my  credit  as  I  had,  when  I  was  young,  a  desperate 
aversion  to  addressing  strangers,  though  when  once  we  had 
got  into  talk  I  was  pretty  certain  to  assume  the  lead.  The 
last  particular  may  still  be  recognized.  About  four  years 
ago  I  saw  my  lame  lad,  and  knew  him  again  at  once.  He 
was  then  a  man  of  great  strength,  rolling  along,  with  an  inch 
of  cutty  in  his  mouth  and  a  butcher's  basket  on  his  arm. 
Our  meeting  had  been  nothing  to  him,  but  it  was  a  great 
affair  to  me. 

We  strolled  up  the  esplanade  below  the  Castle, 
pausing  in  Ramsay's  Gardens  to  admire  the 
lighted  city  from  above.  In  the  valley  between 
the  Castle  and  Princes  Street  the  pale  blue  mist 
rises  at  night  like  an  exhalation  from  the  old  gray 
stones.  The  lamps  shining  through  it  blend  in 
a  delicate  opalescent  sheen,  shot  here  and  there 
with  brighter  flares.  As  the  sky  darkens  the 
castle  looms  in  silhouette,  with  one  yellow  square 
below  the  Half  Moon  Battery.  "There  are  no 
stars  like  the  Edinburgh  street  lamps,"  says  R. 
L.  S.  Aye,  and  the  brightest  of  them  all  shines 
on  Heriot  Row. 


102  SHANDYGAFF 

The  vision  of  that  child  face  still  comes  to  me, 
peering  down  from  the  dining-room  window.  R. 
L.  S.  may  never  have  gratified  his  boyish  wish  to 
go  round  with  Leerie  and  light  the  lamps,  but  he 
lit  many  and  more  enduring  flames  even  in  the 
hearts  of  those  who  never  saw  him. 


FRANK  CONFESSIONS  OF  A  PUBLISHER'S 
READER 

[Denis  Dulcet,  brother  of  the  well-known  poet 
Dunraven  Dulcet  and  the  extremely  well-known 
literary  agent  Dove  Dulcet,  was  for  many  years  the 
head  reader  for  a  large  publishing  house.  It  was 
my  good  fortune  to  know  him  intimately,  and  when 
he  could  be  severed  from  his  innumerable  manu- 
scripts, which  accompanied  him  everywhere,  even  in 
bed,  he  was  very  good  company.  His  premature 
death  from  reader's  cramp  and  mental  hernia  was 
a  sad  loss  to  the  world  of  polite  letters.  Thousands 
of  mediocre  books  would  have  been  loaded  upon  the 
public  but  for  his  incisive  and  unerring  judgment. 
When  he  lay  on  his  deathbed,  surrounded  by  half- 
read  MSS.,  he  sent  for  me,  and  with  an  air  of  extreme 
solemnity  laid  a  packet  in  my  hand.  It  contained 
the  following  confession,  and  it  was  his  last  wish  that 
it  should  be  published  without  alteration.  I  include 
it  here  in  memory  of  my  very  dear  friend.} 


\ 


N  MY  youth  I  was  wont  to  forecast  various 
occupations  for  myself.  Engine  driver,  tug- 
boat captain,  actor,  statesman,  and  wild 

103 


104          .  SHANDYGAFF 

animal  trainer — such  were  the  visions  with  which 
I  put  myself  to  sleep.  Never  did  the  merry  life 
of  a  manuscript  reader  swim  into  my  ken.  But 
here  I  am,  buried  elbow  deep  in  the  literary  output 
of  a  commercial  democracy.  My  only  excuse  for 
setting  down  these  paragraphs  is  the  hope  that 
other  more  worthy  members  of  the  ancient  and 
honorable  craft  may  be  induced  to  speak  out  in 
meeting.  In  these  days  when  every  type  of  man 
is  interviewed,  his  modes  of  thinking  conned 
and  commented  upon,  why  not  a  symposium  of 
manuscript  readers?  Also  I  realized  the  other 
day,  while  reading  a  manuscript  by  Harold  Bell 
Wright,  that  my  powers  are  failing.  My  old 
trouble  is  gaining  on  me,  and  I  may  not  be  long 
for  this  world.  Before  I  go  to  face  the  greatest 
of  all  Rejection  Slips,  I  want  to  utter  my  message 
without  fear  or  favour. 

As  a  class,  publishers'  readers  are  not  vocal. 
They  spend  their  days  and  nights  assiduously  (in 
the  literal  sense)  bent  over  mediocre  stuff,  poking 
and  poring  in  the  unending  hope  of  finding  some- 
thing rich  and  strange.  A  gradual  stultitia  seizes 
them.  They  take  to  drink;  they  beat  their  wives; 
they  despair  of  literature.  Worst,  and  most 
preposterous,  they  one  and  all  nourish  secret 
hopes  of  successful  authorship.  You  might  think 
that  the  interminable  flow  of  turgid  blockish 


SHANDYGAFF  105 

fiction  that  passes  beneath  their  weary  eyes  would 
justly  sicken  them  of  the  abominable  gymnastic 
of  writing.  But  no:  the  venom  is  in  the  blood. 

Great  men  have  graced  the  job — and  got  out  of  it 
as  soon  as  possible.  George  Meredith  was  a  reader 
once; so  was  Frank  Norris;  also  E.  V.  Lucas  and  Gil- 
bert Chesterton.  One  of  the  latter 's  comments  on  a 
manuscript  is  still  preserved.  Writing  of  a  novel 
by  a  lady  who  was  the  author  of  many  unpublished 
stories,  all  marked  by  perseverance  rather  than 
talent,  he  said,  "Age  cannot  wither  nor  custom 
stale  her  infinite  lack  of  variety."  But  alas,  we 
hear  too  little  of  these  gentlemen  in  their  capac- 
ity as  publishers'  pursuivants.  Patrolling  the 
porches  of  literature,  why  did  they  not  bequeath 
us  some  pandect  of  their  experience,  some  rich 
garniture  of  commentary  on  the  adventures  that 
befell?  But  they,  and  younger  men  such  as 
Coningsby  Dawson  and  Sinclair  Lewis,  have  gone 
on  into  the  sunny  hayfields  of  popular  authorship 
and  said  nothing. 

But  these  brilliant  swallow-tailed  migrants  are 
not  typical.  Your  true  specimen  of  manuscript 
reader  is  the  faithful  old  percheron  who  is  content 
to  go  on,  year  after  year,  sorting  over  the  literary 
pemmican  that  comes  before  him,  inexhaustible  in 
his  love  for  the  delicacies  of  good  writing,  happy 
if  once  or  twice  a  twelve-month  he  chance  upon 


106  SHANDYGAFF 

some  winged  thing.  He  is  not  the  pettifogging 
pilgarlic  of  popular  conception:  he  is  a  devoted 
servant  of  letters,  willing  to  take  his  thirty  or 
forty  dollars  a  week,  willing  to  suffer  the  peine 
forte  et  dure  of  his  profession  in  the  knowledge  of 
honest  duty  done,  writing  terse  and  marrowy 
little  essays  on  manuscripts,  which  are  buried  in 
the  publishers'  files.  This  man  is  an  honour  to 
the  profession,  and  I  believe  there  are  many  such. 
Certainly  there  are  many  who  sigh  wistfully  when 
they  must  lay  aside  some  cherished  writing  of  their 
own  to  devote  an  evening  to  illiterate  twaddle. 
Five  book  manuscripts  a  day,  thirty  a  week, 
close  to  fifteen  hundred  a  year — that  is  a  fair 
showing  for  the  head  reader  of  a  large  publishing 
house. 

One  can  hardly  blame  him  if  he  sometimes  grow 
skeptic  or  acid  about  the  profession  of  letters. 
Of  each  hundred  manuscripts  turned  in  there 
will  rarely  be  more  than  three  or  four  that  merit 
any  serious  consideration;  only  about  one  in  a 
hundred  will  be  acceptable  for  publication.  And 
the  others — alas  that  human  beings  should  have 
invented  ink  to  steal  away  their  brains!  "Only 
a  Lady  Barber"  is  the  title  of  a  novel  in  manu- 
script which  I  read  the  other  day.  Written  in  the 
most  atrocious  dialect,  it  betrayed  an  ignorance 
of  composition  that  would  have  been  discreditable 


SHANDYGAFF  107 

to  a  polyp.  It  described  the  experiences  of  a 
female  tonsor  somewhere  in  Idaho,  and  closed 
with  her  Machiavellian  manoeuvres  to  entice 
into  her  shaving  chair  a  man  who  had  bilked  her, 
so  that  she  might  slice  his  ear.  No  need  to  harrow 
you  with  more  of  the  same  kind.  I  read  almost 
a  score  every  week.  Often  I  think  of  a  poem 
which  was  submitted  to  me  once,  containing  this 
immortal  couplet: 

She  damped  a  pen  in  the  ooze  of  her  brain  and  wrote  a  verse 

on  the  air, 
A  verse  that  had  shone  on  the  disc  of  the  sun,  had  she  chosen 

to  set  it  there. 

Let  me  beg  you,  my  dears,  leave  the  pen  un- 
damped unless  your  cerebral  ooze  really  has  some- 
thing to  impart.  And  then,  once  a  year  or  so, 
when  one  is  thinking  that  the  hooves  of  Pegasus 
have  turned  into  pigs'  trotters,  comes  some 
Joseph  Conrad,  some  Walter  de  la  Mare,  some 
Rupert  Brooke  or  Pearsall  Smith,  to  restore  one's 
sanity. 

Or  else — what  is  indeed  more  frequent — the 
reader's  fainting  spirits  are  repaired  not  by  the 
excellence  of  the  manuscript  before  him,  but  by 
its  absolute  literary  nonentity,  a  kind  of  intellec- 
tual Absolute  Zero.  Lack  of  merit  may  be  so 
complete,  so  grotesque,  that  the  composition 


108  SHANDYGAFF 

affords  to  the  sophistic  eye  a  high  order  of  comedy. 
A  lady  submits  a  poem  in  many  cantos,  beginning 

Our  heart  is  but  a  bundle  of  muscle 

In  which  our  passions  tumble  and  tussle. 

Another  lady  begins  her  novel  with  the  following 
psychanalysis : 

"Thus  doth  the  ever-changing  course  of  things  run  a  per- 
petual circle."  .  .  .  She  read  the  phrase  and  then 
reflected,  the  cause  being  a  continued  prognostication,  begin- 
ning and  ending  as  it  had  done  ti  e  day  before,  to-morrow 
and  forever,  maybe,  of  her  own  ailment,  a  paradoxical  mal- 
ady, being  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  pronounced  case  of 
malnutrition  of  the  soul,  a  broken  heart-cord,  aggravated  by  a 
total  collapse  of  that  portion  of  the  mentalities  which  had 
been  bolstered  up  by  undue  pride,  fallacious  arguments* 
modern  foibles  and  follies  peculiar  to  the  human  species, 
both  male  and  female,  under  favorable  social  conditions, 
found  in  provincial  towns  as  well  as  in  large  cities  and  fash- 
ionable watering  places. 

But  as  a  fitting  anodyne  to  this  regrettable  case 
of  soul  malnutrition,  let  me  append  a  description 
of  a  robuster  female,  taken  verbatim  from  a  man- 
uscript (penned  by  masculine  hand)  which  be- 
came a  by-word  in  one  publisher's  office. 

She  was  a  beautiful  young  lady.  She  was  a  medium- 
sized,  elegant  figure,  wearing  a  neatly-fitted  travelling  dress  of 
black  alpaca.  Her  raven-black  hair,  copious  both  in  length 


SHANDYGAFF  109 

and  volume  and  figured  like  a  deep  river,  rippled  by  the  wind, 
was  parted  in  the  centre  and  combed  smoothly  down, 
ornamenting  her  pink  temples  with  a  flowing  tracery  that 
passed  round  to  its  modillion  windings  on  a  graceful  crown. 
Her  mouth  was  set  with  pearls  adorned  with  elastic  rubies  and 
tuned  with  minstrel  lays,  while  her  nose  gracefully  concealed 
its  own  umbrage,  and  her  eyes  imparted  a  radiant  glow  to  the 
azure  of  the  sky.  Jewels  of  plain  gold  were  about  her  ears 
and  her  tapering  strawberry  hands,  and  a  golden  chain, 
attached  to  a  time-keeper  of  the  same  material, -sparkled  on 
an  elegantly-rounded  bosom  that  was  destined  to  be  pushed 
forward  by  sighs.' 

Let  it  not  be  thought  that  only  the  gracious 
sex  can  inspire  such  plenitude  of  meticulous 
portraiture!  Here  is  a  description  of  the  hero  in 
a  novel  by  a  man  which  appeared  on  my  desk 
recently: 

For  some  time  past  there  had  been  appearing  at  the  home 
of  Sarah  Ellenton,  a  man  not  over  fifty  years  of  age,  well 
groomed  and  of  the  appearances  of  being  on  good  terms 
with  prosperity  in  many  phases.  His  complexion  was  red- 
dish. His  hazel  eyes  deepset  and  close  together  were  small 
and  shifting.  His  nose  ran  down  to  a  point  in  many  lines, 
and  from  the  point  back  to  where  it  joined  above  his  lip, 
the  course  was  seen  to  swerve  slightly  to  one  side.  His 
upper  lip  assumed  almost  any  form  and  at  all  times.  His 
mouth  ran  across  his  face  in  a  thin  line,  curved  by  waves 
according  to  the  smiles  and  expressions  he  employed.  Below 
those  features  was  a  chin  of  fine  proportions,  showing  nothing 
to  require  study,  but  in  his  jaw  hinges  there  was  a  device 


110  SHANDYGAFF 

that  worked  splendidly,  when  he  wished  to  show  unction 
and  charity,  by  sending  out  his  chin  on  such  occasions  in 
the  kindest  advances  one  would  wish  to  see. 

It  was  not  long  before  Sarah  became  Mrs.  John  R.  Quinley. 

I  hear  that  the  authors  are  going  to  unionize 
themselves  and  join  the  A.  F.  of  L.  The  word 
"author"  carries  no  sanctity  with  me:  I  have 
read  too  many  of  them.  If  their  forming  a  trade 
union  will'better  the  output  of  American  literature 
I  am  keen  for  it.  I  know  that  the  professional 
reader  has  a  jaundiced  eye;  insensibly  he  acquires 
a  parallax  which  distorts  his  vision.  Reading  in- 
cessantly, now  fiction,  now  history,  poetry,  essays, 
philosophy,  science,  exegetics,  and  what  not,  he 
becomes  a  kind  of  pantechnicon  of  slovenly  know- 
ledge; a  knower  of  thousands  of  things  that  aren't 
so.  Every  crank's  whim,  every  cretin's  philoso- 
phy, is  fired  at  him  first  of  all.  Every  six  months 
comes  in  the  inevitable  treatise  on  the  fourth 
dimension  or  on  making  gold  from  sea-water,  or  on 
using  moonlight  to  run  dynamos,  or  on  Pope 
Joan  or  Prester  John.  And  with  it  all  he  must 
retain  his  simple-hearted  faith  in  the  great  art  of 
writing  and  in  the  beneficence  of  Gutenberg. 

Manuscript  readers  need  a  trade  union  far 
worse  than  authors.  There  is  all  too  little  clan- 
nishness  among  us.  We  who  are  the  helpless  tar- 
get for  the  slings  and  arrows  of  every  writer  who 


SHANDYGAFF  111 

chooses  to  put  pen  on  foolscap — might  we  not  meet 
now  and  then  for  the  humour  of  exchanging  anec- 
dotes? No  class  of  beings  is  more  in  need  of  the 
consolations  of  intercourse.  Perpend,  brothers! 
Let  us  order  a  tierce  of  malmsey  and  talk  it  over! 
Perchance,  too,  a  trade  union  among  readers  might 
be  of  substantial  advantage.  Is  it  not  sad  that  a 
man  should  read  manuscripts  all  the  sweet  years 
of  his  maturity,  and  be  paid  forty  dollars  a  week? 
Let  us  make  sixty  the  minimum — or  let  there 
be  a  pogrom  among  the  authors! 


WILLIAM   McFEE 

MThee  is  the  most  tidy  of  chief  engineers.  If  the  leg 
of  a  cockroach  gets  into  one  of  his  slide-valves  the  whole 
ship  knows  it,  and  half  the  ship  has  to  clean  up  the  mess. 

— RUDYARD  KIPLING. 

THE  next  time  the  Cunard  Company  com- 
missions a  new  liner  I  wish  they  would 
sign  on  Joseph  Conrad  as  captain,  Rud- 
yard  Kipling  as  purser,  and  William  McFee  as 
chief  engineer.     They  might  add  Don  Marquis 
as  deck  steward  and  Hall  Caine  as  chief-stewardess. 
Then  I  would  like  to  be  at  Raymond  and  Whit- 
comb's     and    watch     the     clerks     booking    pas- 
sages ! 

William  McFee  does  not  spell  his  name  quite 
as  does  the  Scotch  engineer  in  Mr.  Kipling's 
Brugglesmith,  but  I  feel  sure  that  his  attitude 
toward  cockroaches  in  the  slide-valve  is  the 
same.  Unhappily  I  do  not  know  Mr.  McFee 
in  his  capacity  as  engineer;  but  I  know  and 
respect  his  feelings  as  a  writer,  his  love  of  honour- 
able and  honest  work,  his  disdain  for  blurb  and 
blat.  And  by  an  author's  attitude  toward  the 
purveyors  of  publicity,  you  may  know  him . 

112 


SHANDYGAFF  113 

One  evening  about  the  beginning  of  December, 
1915,  I  was  sitting  by  the  open  fire  in  Hempstead, 
Long  Island,  a  comparatively  inoffensive  young 
man,  reading  the  new  edition  of  Flecker's  "The 
Golden  Journey  to  Samarkand"  issued  that 
October  by  Martin  Seeker  in  London.  Mr. 
Seeker,  like  many  other  wise  publishers,  inserts 
in  the  back  of  his  books  the  titles  of  other  volumes 
issued  by  him.  Little  did  I  think,  as  I  turned  to 
look  over  Mr.  Seeker's  announcements,  that  a  train 
of  events  was  about  to  begin  which  would  render 
me,  during  the  succeeding  twelve  months,  a 
monomaniac  in  the  eyes  of  my  associates;  so 
much  so  that  when  I  was  blessed  with  a  son  and 
heir  just  a  year  later  I  received  a  telegram  signed 
by  a  dozen  of  them:  "Congratulations.  Name 
him  Casuals!" 

It  was  in  that  list  of  Mr.  Seeker's  titles  for  the 
winter  of  1915-16  that  my  eyes  first  rested,  with  a 
premonitory  lust,  upon  the  not-to-be-forgotten 
words. 

MCFEE,  WILLIAM:     CASUALS  OF  THE  SEA. 
Who  could  fail  to  be  stirred  by  so  brave  a  title? 
At  once  I  wrote  for  a  copy. 

My  pocket  memorandum  book  for  Sunday, 
January  9,  1916,  contains  this  note: 

"Finished  reading  Casuals  of  the  Sea,  a  good 
book.  H—  —still  laid  up  with  bad  ankle.  In  the 


114  SHANDYGAFF 

p.  M.  we  sat  and  read  Bible  aloud  to  Celia  before 
the  open  fire." 

My  first  impressions  of  "Casuals  of  the  Sea, 
a  good  book"  are  interwoven  with  memories  of 
Celia,  a  pious  Polish  serving  maid  from  Pike 
County,  Pennsylvania,  who  could  only  be  kept 
in  the  house  by  nightly  readings  of  another  Good 
Book.  She  was  horribly  homesick  (that  was  her 
first  voyage  away  from  home)  and  in  spite  of 
persistent  Bible  readings  she  fled  after  two  weeks, 
back  to  her  home  in  Parker's  Glen,  Pa.  She  was 
our  first  servant,  and  we  had  prepared  a  beautiful 
room  in  the  attic  for  her.  However,  that  has 
nothing  to  do  with  Mr.  McFee. 

Casuals  of  the  Sea  is  a  novel  whose  sale  of  ten 
thousand  copies  in  America  is  more  important  as  a- 
forecast  of  literary  weather  than  many  a  popular 
distribution  of  a  quarter  million.  Be  it  known 
by  these  presents  that  there  are  at  least  ten  thou- 
sand librivora  in  this  country  who  regard  literature 
not  merely  as  an  emulsion.  This  remarkable 
novel,  the  seven  years'  study  of  a  busy  engineer 
occupied  with  boiler  inspections,  indicator  cards 
and  other  responsibilities  of  the  Lord  of  Below, 
was  the  first  really  public  appearance  of  a  pen 
that  will  henceforth  be  listened  to  with  respect. 

Mr.  McFee  had  written  two  books  before  "Cas- 
uals" was  published,  but  at  that  time  it  was  not 


SHANDYGAFF  115 

easy  to  find  any  one  who  had  read  them.  They 
were  Letters  from  an  Ocean  Tramp  (1908)  and 
Aliens  (1914);  the  latter  has  been  rewritten  since 
then  and  issued  in  a  revised  edition.  It  is  a  very 
singular  experiment  in  the  art  of  narrative,  and  a 
rich  commentary  on  human  folly  by  a  man  who 
has  made  it  his  hobby  to  think  things  out  for 
himself.  And  the  new  version  is  headlighted  by 
a  preface  which  may  well  take  its  place  among 
the  most  interesting  literary  confessions  of  this 
generation,  where  Mr.  McFee  shows  himself  as 
that  happiest  of  men,  the  artist  who  also  has  other 
and  more  urgent  concerns  than  the  whittling  of  a 
paragraph : — 

Of  art  I  never  grow  weary,  but  she  calls  me  over  the  world. 
I  suspect  the  sedentary  art  worker.  Most  of  all  I  suspect 
the  sedentary  writer.  I  divide  authors  into  two  classes — 
genuine  artists,  and  educated  men  who  wish  to  earn  enough 
to  let  them  live  like  country  gentlemen.  With  the  latter  I 
have  no  concern.  But  the  artist  knows  when  his  time  has 
come.  In  the  same  way  I  turned  with  irresistible  longing 
to  the  sea,  whereon  I  had  been  wont  to  earn  my  living.  It 
is  a  good  life  and  I  love  it.  I  love  the  men  and  their  ships. 
I  find  in  them  a  never-ending  panorama  which  illustrates 
my  theme,  the  problem  of  human  folly. 

Mr.  McFee,  you  see,  has  some  excuse  for  being 
a  good  writer  because  he  ha*  never  bad  to  write 
for  a  living.  He  has  been  writing  for  the  fun  of  it 


116  SHANDYGAFF 

ever  since  he  was  an  apprentice  in  a  big  engineering 
shop  in  London  twenty  years  ago.  His  profession 
deals  with  exacting  and  beautiful  machinery,  and 
he  could  no  more  do  hack  writing  than  hack 
engineering.  And  unlike  the  other  English  real- 
ists of  his  generation  who  have  cultivated  a  cheap 
flippancy,  McFee  finds  no  exhilaration  in  easy 
sneers  at  middle-class  morality.  He  has  a  dirk 
up  his  sleeve  for  Gentility  (how  delightfully  he 
flays  it  in  Aliens)  but  he  loves  the  middle  classes 
for  just  what  they  are:  the  great  fly-wheel  of  the 
world.  His  attitude  toward  his  creations  is  that 
of  a  "benevolent  marbleheart "  (his  own  phrase). 
He  has  seen  some  of  the  seams  of  life,  and  like 
McAndrew  he  has  hammered  his  own  philosophy. 
It  is  a  manly,  just,  and  gentle  creed,  but  not  a  soft 
one.  Since  the  war  began  he  has  been  on  sea  ser- 
vice, first  on  a  beef-ship  and  transport  in  the 
Mediterranean,  now  as  sub-lieutenant  in  the 
British  Navy.  When  the  war  is  over,  and  if  he 
feels  the  call  of  the  desk,  Mr.  McFee's  brawny 
shoulder  will  sit  in  at  the  literary  feast  and  a  big 
handful  of  scribblers  will  have  to  drop  down  the 
dumb-waiter  shaft  to  make  room  for  him.  It  is  a 
disconcerting  figure  in  Grub  Street,  the  man  who 
really  has  something  to  say. 

Publishers  are  always  busy  casting  horoscopes 
for  their  new  finds.     How  the  benign  planets  must 


SHANDYGAFF  117 

have  twirled  in  happy  curves  when  Harold  Bell 
Wright  was  born,  if  one  may  credit  his  familiar 
mage,  Elsbury  W.  Reynolds!  But  the  fame  that 
is  built  merely  on  publishers'  press  sheets  does  not 
dig  very  deep  in  the  iron  soil  of  time.  We  are 
all  only  raft-builders,  as  Lord  Dunsany  tells  us 
in  his  little  parable;  even  the  raft  that  Homer 
made  for  Helen  must  break  up  some  day.  Who 
in  these  States  knows  the  works  of  Nat  Gould? 
Twelve  million  of  his  dashing  paddock  novels  have 
been  sold  in  England,  but  he  is  as  unknown  here 
as  is  Preacher  Wright  in  England.  What  is  so 
dead  as  a  dead  best  seller?  Sometimes  it  is  the 
worst  sellers  that  come  to  life,  roll  away  the  stone, 
and  an  angel  is  found  sitting  laughing  in  the 
sepulchre.  Let  me  quote  Mr.  McFee  once  more: 
"I  have  no  taste  for  blurb,  but  I  cannot  refuse 
facts." 

William  M.  P.  McFee  was  born  at  sea  in  1881. 
His  father,  an  English  skipper,  was  bringing  his 
vessel  toward  the  English  coast  after  a  long  voyage. 
His  mother  was  a  native  of  Nova  Scotia.  They 
settled  in  New  Southgate,  a  northern  middle-class 
suburb  of  London,  and  here  McFee  was  educated 
in  the  city  schools  of  which  the  first  pages  of  Cas- 
uals of  the  Sea  give  a  pleasant  description.  Then 
he  went  to  a  well-known  grammar  school  at  Bury 
St.  Edmunds  in  Suffolk — what  we  would  call  over 


118  SHANDYGAFF 

here  a  high  school.  He  was  a  quiet,  sturdy  boy, 
and  a  first-rate  cricketer. 

At  sixteen  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  big  engineer- 
ing firm  in  Aldersgate.  This  is  one  of  the  oldest 
streets  in  London,  near  the  Charterhouse,  Smith- 
field  Market,  and  the  famous  "Bart's"  Hospital. 
In  fact,  the  office  of  the  firm  was  built  over  one 
of  the  old  plague  pits  of  1665.  His  father  had  died 
several  years  before;  and  for  the  boy  to  become  an 
apprentice  in  this  well-known  firm  Mrs.  McFee 
had  to  pay  three  hundred  pounds  sterling:  McFee 
has  often  wondered  just  what  he  got  for  the 
money.  However,  the  privilege  of  paying  to  be 
better  than  someone  else  is  an  established  way  of 
working  out  one's  destiny  in  England,  and  at  the 
time  the  mother  and  son  knew  no  better  than  to 
conform.  You  will  find  this  problem,  and  the 
whole  matter  of  gentility,  cuttingly  set  out  in 
Aliens. 

After  three  years  as  an  apprentice,  McFee  was 
sent  out  by  the  firm  on  various  important  engineer- 
ing jobs,  notably  a  pumping  installation  at  Tring, 
which  he  celebrated  in  a  pamphlet  of  very  credit- 
able juvenile  verses,  for  which  he  borrowed  Mr. 
Kipling's  mantle.  This  was  at  the  time  of  the 
Boer  War,  when  everybody  in  trousers  who  wrote 
verses  was  either  imitating  Kipling  or  reacting 
from  him. 


.  SHANDYGAFF  119 

Ms  engineering  work  gave  young  McFee  a 
powerful  interest  in  the  lives  and  thoughts  of  the 
working  classes.  He  was  strongly  influenced  by 
socialism,  and  all  his  spare  moments  were  spent 
with  books.  He  came  to  live  in  Chelsea  with  an 
artist  friend,  but  he  had  already  tasted  life  at  first 
hand,  and  the  rather  hazy  atmosphere  of  that 
literary  and  artistic  Utopia  made  him  uneasy. 
His  afternoons  were  spent  at  the  British  Museum 
reading  room,  his  evenings  at  the  Northampton 
Institute,  where  he  attended  classes,  and  even  did  a 
little  lecturing  of  his  own.  Competent  engineer 
as  he  was,  that  was  never  sufficient  to  occupy  his 
mind.  As  early  as  1902  he  was  writing  short 
stories  and  trying  to  sell  them. 

In  1905  his  uncle,  a  shipmaster,  offered  him  a 
berth  in  the  engine  room  of  one  of  his  steamers, 
bound  for  Trieste.  He  jumped  at  the  chance. 
Since  then  he  has  been  at  sea  almost  continuously, 
save  for  one  year  (1912-13)  when  he  settled  down 
in  Nutley,  New  Jersey,  to  write.  The  reader  of 
Aliens  will  be  pretty  familiar  with  Nutley  by 
the  time  he  reaches  page  416.  "Netley"  is  but  a 
thin  disguise.  I  suspect  a  certain  liveliness  in  the 
ozone  of  Nutley.  Did  not  Frank  Stockton  write 
some  of  his  best  tales  there?  Some  day  some 
literary  meteorologist  will  explain  how  these 
intellectual  anticyclones  originate  in  such  places  as 


120  SHANDYGAFF 

Nutley  (N.  J),  Galesburg  (111.),  Port  Washington 
(N.  YO,  and  Bryn  Mawr  (Pa.) 

The  life  of  a  merchantman  engineer  would  not 
seem  to  open  a  fair  prospect  into  literature.  The 
work  is  gruelling  and  at  the  same  time  monoto- 
nous. Constant  change  of  scene  and  absence  of 
home  ties  are  (I  speak  subject  to  correction) 
demoralizing;  after  the  coveted  chief's  certificate 
is  won,  ambition  has  little  further  to  look  forward 
to.  A  small  and  stuffy  cabin  in  the  belly  of  the 
ship  is  not  an  inviting  study.  The  works  of  Miss 
Corelli  and  Messrs.  Haig  and  Haig  are  the  only 
diversions  of  most  of  the  profession.  Art,  litera- 
ture, and  politics  do  not  interest  them .  Picture  post- 
cards, waterside  saloons,  and  the  ladies  of  the  port 
are  the  glamour  of  life  that  they  delight  to  honour. 

I  imagine  that  Mr.  Carville's  remarkable  ac- 
count (in  Aliens)  of  his  induction  into  the  pro- 
fession of  marine  engineering  has  no  faint  colour 
of  reminiscence  in  Mr.  McFee's  mind.  The 
filth,  the  intolerable  weariness,  the  instant  neces- 
sity of  the  tasks,  stagger  the  easygoing  suburban 
reader.  And  only  the  other  day,  speaking  of  his 
work  on  a  seaplane  ship  in  the  British  Navy,  Mr. 
McFee  said  some  illuminating  things  about  the 
life  of  an  engineer: 

It  is  Sunday,  and  I  have  been  working.     Oh,  yes,  there  is 
plenty  of  work  to  do  in  the  world,  I  find,  wherever  I  go. 


SHANDYGAFF 

But  I  cannot  help  wondering  why  Fate  so  often  offers  me  the 
dirty  end  of  the  stick.  Here  I  am,  awaiting  my  commission 
as  an  engineer-officer  of  the  R.N.R.,  and  I  am  in  the  thick  of 
it  day  after  day.  I  don't  mean,  when  I  say  "work,"  what 
you  mean  by  work.  I  don't  mean  work  such  as  my  friend 
the  Censor  does,  or  my  friend  the  N.E.O.  does,  nor  my  friends 
and  shipmates,  the  navigating  officer,  the  flying  men,  or  the 
officers  of  the  watch.  I  mean  work,  hard,  sweating,  nasty 
toil,  coupled  with  responsibility.  I  am  not  alone.  Most 
ships  of  the  naval  auxiliary  are  the  same. 

I  am  anxious  for  you,  a  landsman,  to  grasp  this  particular 
fragment  of  the  sorry  scheme  of  things  entire,  that  in  no 
other  profession  have  the  officers  responsible  for  the  carrying 
out  of  the  work  to  toil  as  do  the  engineers  in  merchantmen, 
in  transports,  in  fleet  auxiliaries.  You  do  not  expect  the 
major  to  clear  the  waste-pipe  of  his  regimental  latrines.  You 
do  not  expect  the  surgeon  to  superintend  the  purging  of  his 
bandages.  You  do  not  expect  the  navigators  of  a  ship  to 
paint  her  hull.  You  do  not  expect  an  architect  to  make  bricks 
(sometimes  without  straw).  You  do  not  expect  the  barrister 
to  go  and  repair  the  lock  on  the  law  courts  door,  or  oil  the 
fans  that  ventilate  the  halls  of  justice.  Yet  you  do,  collec- 
tively, tolerate  a  tradition  by  which  the  marine  engineer 
has  to  assist,  overlook,  and  very  often  perform  work  corre- 
sponding precisely  to  the  irrelevant  chores  mentioned  above, 
which  are  in  other  professions  relegated  to  the  humblest 
and  roughest  of  mankind.  I  blame  no  one.  It  is  tradition, 
a  most  terrible  windmill  at  which  to  tilt;  but  I  conceive 
it  my  duty  to  set  down  once  at  least  the  peculiar  nature  of  an 
engineer's  destiny.  I  have  had  some  years  of  it,  and  I  know 
what  I  am  talking  about. 

The  point  to  distinguish  is  that  the  engineer  not  only  has 
the  responsibility,  but  he  has,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  to  do  it. 


SHANDYGAFF 

He,  the  officer,  must  befoul  his  person  and  derange  his  hours 
of  rest  and  recreation,  that  others  may  enjoy.  He  must  be 
available  twenty-four  hours  a  day,  seven  days  a  week,  at  sea 
or  in  port.  Whether  chief  or  the  lowest  junior,  he  must  be 
ready  to  plunge  instantly  to  the  succour  of  the  vilest  piece 
of  mechanism  on  board.  When  coaling,  his  lot  is  easier 
imagined  than  described. 

The  remarkable  thing  to  note  is  that  Mr. 
McFee  imposed  upon  these  laborious  years  of 
physical  toil  a  strenuous  discipline  of  intellect  as 
well.  He  is  a  born  worker:  patient,  dogged, 
purposeful.  His  years  at  sea  have  been  to  him  a 
more  fruitful  curriculum  than  that  of  any  univer- 
sity. The  patient  sarcasm  with  which  he  speaks 
of  certain  Oxford  youths  of  his  acquaintance 
does  not  escape  me.  His  sarcasm  is  just  and  on 
the  target.  He  has  stood  as  Senior  Wrangler  in  a 
far  more  exacting  viva  voce — the  University  of  the 
Seven  Seas. 

If  I  were  a  college  president,  out  hunting  for  a 
faculty,  I  would  deem  that  no  salary  would  be  too 
big  to  pay  for  the  privilege  of  getting  a  man  like 
McFee  on  my  staff.  He  would  not  come,  of 
course!  But  how  he  has  worked  for  his  mastery 
of  the  art  of  life  and  the  theory  thereof!  When 
his  colleagues  at  sea  were  dozing  in  their  deck 
chairs  or  rattling  the  bones  along  the  mahogany, 
7*e  was  sweating  in  his  bunk,  writing  or  reading. 


SHANDYGAFF  123 

He  has  always  been  deeply  interested  in  painting, 
and  no  gallery  in  any  port  he  visited  ever  escaped 
him.  These  extracts  from  some  of  his  letters  will 
show  whether  his  avocations  were  those  of  most 
engineers : 

As  I  crossed  the  swing-bridge  of  the  docks  at  Garston 
(Liverpool)  the  other  day,  and  saw  the  tapering  spars  sil- 
houetted against  the  pale  sky,  and  the  zinc-coloured  river 
with  its  vague  Cheshire  shores  dissolving  in  mist,  it  occurred 
to  me  that  if  an  indulgent  genie  were  to  appear  and  make  me 
an  offer  I  would  cheerfully  give  up  writing  for  painting. 
As  it  is,  I  see  things  in  pictures  and  I  spend  more  time  in  the 
Walker  Gallery  than  in  the  library  next  door. 

I've  got  about  all  I  can  get  out  of  books,  and  now  I  don't 
relish  them  save  as  memories.  The  reason  for  my  wish,  I 
suppose,  is  that  character,  not  incident,  is  my  metier.  And 
you  can  draw  character,  paint  character,  but  you  can't  very 
well  blat  about  it,  can  you?  t 

I  am  afraid  Balzac's  job  is  too  big  for  anybody  nowadays. 
The  worst  of  writing  men  nowadays  is  their  horrible  ignor- 
ance of  how  people  live,  of  ordinary  human  possibilities. 

A .  is  always  pitching  into  me  for  my  insane  ideas  about 

"cheap  stuff."  He  says  I'm  on  the  wrong  tack  and  I'll  be  a 
failure  if  I  don't  do  what  the  public  wants.  I  said  I  didn't 
care  a  blue  curse  what  the  public  wanted,  nor  did  I  worry 
much  if  I  never  made  a  big  name.  All  I  want  is  to  do  some 
fine  and  honourable  work,  to  do  it  as  well  as  I  possibly  couldj 
and  there  my  responsibility  ended.  .  .  .  To  hell  with 
writing,,  I  want  to  feel  and  see! 

I  am  laying  in  a  gallon  of  ink  and  a  couple  of  cwt.  of  paper, 
to  the  amusement  of  the  others,  who  imagine  I  am  a 


124  SHANDYGAFF 

chant  of  some  sort  who  has  to  transact  business  at  sea  because 
Scotland  yard  are  after  him ! 


His  kit  for  every  voyage,  besides  the  gallon  of  ink 
and  the  hundredweight  of  foolscap,  always  in- 
cluded a  score  of  books,  ranging  from  Livy  or 
Chaucer  to  Gorky  and  histories  of  Italian  art. 
Happening  to  be  in  New  York  at  the  time  of  the 
first  exhibition  in  this  country  of  "futurist"  pic- 
tures, he  entered  eagerly  into  the  current  dis- 
cussion in  the  newspaper  correspondence  columns. 
He  wrote  for  a  leading  London  journal  an  article 
on  "The  Conditions  of  Labour  at  Sea."  He 
finds  time  to  contribute  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly 
pieces  of  styptic  prose  that  make  zigzags  on  the 
sphygmograph  of  the  editor.  His  letters  written 
weekly  to  ,the  artist  friend  he  once  lived  with  in 
Chelsea  show  a  humorous  and  ironical  mind  rang- 
ing over  all  topics  that  concern  cultivated  men. 
I  fancy  he  could  out-argue  many  a  university 
professor  on  Russian  fiction,  or  Michelangelo,  or 
steam  turbines. 

When  one  says  that  McFee  found  little  intel- 
lectually in  common  with  his  engineering  col- 
leagues- that  is  not  to  say  that  he  was  a  prig. 
He  was  interested  in  everything  that  they  were, 
but  in  a  great  deal  more,  too.  And  after  obtaining 
his  extra  chief's  certificate  from  the  London 


SHANDYGAFF  125 

Board  of  Trade,  with  a  grade  of  ninety-eight  per 
cent.,  he  was  not  inclined  to  rest  on  his  gauges. 

In  1912  he  took  a  walking  trip  from  Glasgow  to 
London,  to  gather  local  colour  for  a  book  he  had 
long  meditated;  then  he  took  ship  for  the  United 
States,  where  he  lived  for  over  a  year  writing 
hard.  Neither  Aliens  nor  Casuals  of  the  Sea,  which 
he  had  been  at  work  on  for  years,  met  with  the 
favour  of  New  York  publishers.  He  carried  his 
manuscripts  around  the  town  until  weary  of  that 
amusement;  and  when  the  United  Fruit  Company 
asked  him  to  do  some  engineering  work  for  them 
he  was  not  loath  to  get  back  into  the  old  harness. 
And  then  came  the  war. 

Alas,  it  is  too  much  to  hope  that  the  Cunard 
Company  will  ever  officer  a  vessel  as  I  have  sug- 
gested at  the  outset  of  these  remarks.  But  I 
made  my  proposal  not  wholly  at  random,  for  in 
Conrad,  Kipling,  and  McFee,  all  three,  there  is 
something  of  the  same  artistic  creed.  In  those 
two  magnificent  prefaces — to  A  Personal  Rec- 
ord and  to  The  Nigger  of  the  Narcissus — 
Conrad  has  set  down,  in  words  that  should  be 
memorable  to  every  trafficker  in  ink,  his  concep- 
tion of  the  duty  of  the  man  of  letters.  They 
can  never  be  quoted  too  often: 

"All  ambitions  are  lawful  except  those  which 
climb  upward  on  the  miseries  or  credulities  of 


126  SHANDYGAFF 

mankind.  .  .  .  The  sight  of  human  affairs 
deserves  admiration  and  pity.  And  he  is  not 
insensible  who  pays  them  the  undemonstrative 
tribute  of  a  sigh  which  is  not  a  sob,  and  of  a  smile 
which  is  not  a  grin." 

That  is  the  kind  of  tribute  that  Mr.  McFee  has 
paid  to  the  Gooderich  family  in  Casuals  of  the 
Sea.  Somewhere  in  that  book  he  has  uttered 
the  immortal  remark  that  "The  world  belongs 
to  the  Enthusiast  who  keeps  cool."  I  think  there 
is  much  of  himself  in  that  aphorism,  and  that  the 
cool  enthusiast,  the  benevolent  marbleheart,  has 
many  fine  things  in  store  for  us. 

And  there  is  one  other  sentence  in  Casuals  of 
the  Sea  that  lingers  with  me,  and  gives  a  just 
trace  of  the  author's  mind.  It  is  worth  remem- 
bering, and  I  leave  it  with  you : 

"She  considered  a  trouble  was  a  trouble  and  to 
be  treated  as  such,  instead  of  snatching  the  knot- 
ted cord  from  the  hand  of  God  and  dealing 
murderous  blows." 


RHUBARB 

WE  USED  to  call  him  Rhubarb,  by  reason 
of  his  long  russet  beard,  which  we  im- 
agined trailing  in  the  prescriptions  as  he 
compounded  them,  imparting  a  special  potency. 
He    was    a    little     German     druggist — Deutsche 
Apotheker — and  his  real  name  was  Friedrich  Wil- 
helm  Maximilian  Schulz. 

The  village  of  Kings  is  tucked  away  in  Long 
Island,  in  the  Debatable  Land  where  the  gener- 
ous boundary  of  New  York  City  zigzags  in  a  sport- 
ing way  just  to  permit  horse  racing  at  Belmont 
Park.  It  is  the  most  rustic  corner  of  the  City. 
To  most  New  Yorkers  it  is  as  remote  as  Helgo- 
land and  as  little  known.  It  has  no  movie 
theatre,  no  news-stand,  no  cigar  store,  no  village 
atheist.  The  railroad  station,  where  one  hundred 
and  fifty  trains  a  day  do  not  stop,  might  well  be 
mistaken  for  a  Buddhist  shrine,  so  steeped  in  dis- 
creet melancholy  is  it.  The  Fire  Department  con- 
sists of  an  old  hose  wagon  first  used  to  extinguish 
fires  kindled  by  the  Republicans  when  Rutherford 
B.  Hayes  was  elected.  In  the  weather-beaten 
Kings  Lyceum  "East  Lynne"  is  still  per- 

127 


128  SHANDYGAFF 

formed  once  a  year.  People  who  find  Quogue 
and  Cohasset  too  exciting,  move  to  Kings  to  cool 
off.  The  only  way  one  can  keep  servants  out 
there  is  by  having  the  works  of  Harold  Bell 
Wright  in  the  kitchen  for  the  cook  to  read. 

Stout-hearted  Mr.  Schulz  came  to  Kings  long 
ago.  There  is  quite  a  little  German  colony  there. 
With  a  delicatessen  store  on  one  side  of  him  and 
a  man  who  played  the  flute  on  the  other,  he  felt 
hardly  at  all  expatriated.  The  public  house  on 
the  corner  serves  excellent  Rheingold,  and  on  win- 
ter evenings  Friedrich  and  Minna  would  sit  by  the 
stove  at  the  back  of  the  drugstore  with  a  jug  of 
amber  on  the  table  and  dream  of  Stuttgart. 

It  did  not  take  me  long  to  find  out  that  apothe- 
cary Schulz  was  an  educated  man.  At  the  rear 
of  the  store  hung  two  diplomas  of  which  he  was 
very  proud.  One  was  a  certificate  from  the  Stutt- 
gart Oberrealschule;  the  other  his  license  to 
practise  homicidal  pharmacy  in  the  German 
Empire,  dated  1880.  He  had  read  the  "Kritik  der 
reinen  Vernunft",  and  found  it  more  interesting 
than  Henry  James,  he  told  me.  Julia  and  T  used 
to  drop  into  his  shop  of  an  evening  for  a  mug  of  hot 
chocolate,  and  always  fell  into  talk.  His  Minna,  a 
frail  little  woman  with  a  shawl  round  her  shoulders, 
would  come  out  into  the  store  and  talk  to  us,  too, 
and  their  pet  dachshund  would  frolic  at  our  feet. 


SHANDYGAFF  129 

They  were  a  quaint  couple,  she  so  white  and  shy 
and  fragile;  he  ruddy,  sturdy,  and  positive. 

It  was  not  till  I  told  him  of  my  years  spent  at  a 
German  University  that  he  really  showed  me  the 
life  that  lay  behind  his  shopman  activity.  We 
sometimes  talked  German  together,  and  he  took 
me  into  their  little  sitting  room  to  see  his  photo- 
graphs of  home  scenes  at  Stuttgart.  It  was  over 
thirty  years  since  he  had  seen  German  soil,  but 
still  his  eyes  would  sparkle  at  the  thought.  He 
and  Minna,  being  childless,  dreamed  of  a  return 
to  the  Fatherland  as  their  great  end  in  life. 

What  an  alluring  place  the  little  drugstore  was ! 
I  was  fascinated  by  the  rows  and  rows  of  gleam- 
ing bottles  labelled  with  mysterious  Latin  abbre- 
viations. There  were  cases  of  patent  remedies — 
Mexican  Mustang  Liniment,  Swamp  Root,  Dan- 
derine,  Conway's  Cobalt  Pills,  Father  Finch's 
Febrifuge,  Spencer's  Spanish  Specific.  Soap,  tal- 
cum, cold  cream,  marshmallows,  tobacco,  jars  of 
rock  candy,  what  a  medley  of  paternostrums ! 
And  old  Rhubarb  himself,  in  his  enormous  baggy 
trousers — infinite  breeches  in  a  little  room,  as 
Julia  used  to  say. 

I  wish  I  could  set  him  down  in  all  his  rich 
human  flavour.  The  first  impression  he  gave 
was  one  of  cleanness  and  good  humour.  He  was 
always  in  shirtsleeves,  with  suspenders  forming  an 


ISO  SHANDYGAFF 

X  across  his  broad  back;  his  shirt  was  fresh 
laundered,  his  glowing  beard  served  as  cravat. 
He  had  a  slow,  rather  ponderous  speech, 
with  deep  gurgling  gutturals  and  a  decrescendo 
laugh,  slipping  farther  and  farther  down  into 
his  larynx.  Once,  when  we  got  to  know  each 
other  fairly  well,  I  ventured  some  harmless  jest 
about  Barbarossa.  He  chuckled;  then  his  face 
grew  grave.  "I  wish  Minna  could  have  the 
beard,"  he  said.  "Her  chest  is  not  strong.  It 
would  be  a  fine  breast-protector  for  her.  But 
me,  because  I  am  strong  like  a  horse,  I  have  it 
all!"  He  thumped  his  chest  ruefully  with  his 
broad,  thick  hand. 

Despite  his  thirty  years  in  America,  good 
Schulz  was  still  the  Deutsche  Apotheker  and  not 
at  all  the  American  druggist.  He  had  installed 
a  soda  fountain  as  a  concession,  but  it  puzzled  him 
sorely,  and  if  he  was  asked  for  anything  more  com- 
plex than  chocolate  ice  cream  soda  he  would 
shake  his  head  solemnly  and  say:  "That  I  have  not 
got."  Motorists  sometimes  turned  off  the  Jericho 
turnpike  and  stopped  at  his  shop  asking  for  banana 
splits  or  grape  juice  highballs,  or  frosted  pineapple 
fizz.  But  they  had  to  take  chocolate  ice  cream 
soda  or  nothing.  Sometimes  in  a  fit  of  absent- 
mindedness  he  would  turn  his  taps  too  hard  and 
the  charged  water  would  spout  across  the  imita- 


SHANDYGAFF  131 

tion  marble  counter.  He  would  wag  his  beard 
deprecatingly  and  mutter  a  shamefaced  apology, 
smiling  again  when  the  little  black  dachshund 
came  trotting  to  sniff  at  the  spilt  soda  and  rasp 
the  wet  floor  with  her  bright  tongue. 

At  the  end  t>f  September  he  shut  up  the  soda 
fountain  gladly,  piling  it  high  with  bars  of  castile 
soap  or  cartons  of  cod  liver  oil.  Then  Minna 
entered  into  her  glory  as  the  dispenser  of  hot 
chocolate  which  seethed  and  sang  in  a  tall  silvery 
tank  with  a  blue  gas  burner  underneath.  This  she 
served  in  thick  china  mugs  with  a  clot  of  whipped 
cream  swimming  on  top.  Julia  would  buy  a  box 
of  the  cheese  crackers  that  Schulz  kept  in  stock 
specially  for  her,  and  give  several  to  the  sleek 
little  black  bitch  that  stood  pleading  with  her 
quaint  turned-out  fore-feet  placed  on  Julia's 
slippers.  Schulz,  beaming  serenely  behind  a 
pyramid  of  "intense  carnation"  bottles  on  his  per- 
fume counter,  would  chuckle  at  the  antics  of  his 
pet.  "Ah,  he  is  a  wise  little  dog!"  he  would 
exclaim  with  naive  pride.  "He  knows  who  is 
friendly!"  He  always  called  the  little  dog  "he," 
which  amused  us. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  the  drugstore  was  closed 
from  one  to  five,  and  during  those  hours  Schulz 
took  his  weekly  walk,  accompanied  by  the  dog 
which  plodded  desperately  after  him  on  her  short 


132  SHANDYGAFF 

legs.  Sometimes  we  met  him  swinging  along  the 
by-roads,  flourishing  a  cudgel  and  humming  to 
himself.  Whenever  he  saw  a  motor  coming  he 
halted,  the  little  black  dachshund  would  look 
up  at  him,  and  he  would  stoop  ponderously  down, 
pick  her  up  and  carry  her  in  his  arms  until  all 
danger  was  past. 

As  the  time  went  on  he  and  I  used  to  talk  a  good 
deal  about  the  war.  Minna,  pale  and  weary, 
would  stand  behind  her  steaming  urn,  keeping 
the  shawl  tight  round  her  shoulders;  Rhubarb 
and  I  would  argue  without  heat  upon  the  latest 
news  from  the  war  zone.  I  had  no  zeal  for  con- 
verting the  old  fellow  from  his  views ;  I  understood 
his  sympathies  and  respected  them.  Reports  of 
atrocities  troubled  him  as  much  as  they  did  me; 
but  the  spine  of  his  contention  was  that  the  Ger- 
man army  was  unbeatable.  He  got  out  his 
faded  discharge  ticket  from  the  Wiirtemberger 
Landsturm  to  show  the  perfect  system  of  the 
Imperial  military  organization.  In  his  desk  at 
the  back  of  the  shop  he  kept  a  war  map  cut  from 
a  Sunday  supplement  and  over  this  we  would 
argue,  Schulz  breathing  hard  and  holding  his 
beard  aside  in  one  hand  as  he  bent  over  the  paper. 
When  other  customers  came  in,  he  would  put  the 
map  away  with  a  twinkle,  and  the  topic  was 
dropped.  But  often  the  glass  top  of  the  perfume 


SHANDYGAFF  133 

counter  was  requisitioned  as  a  large-scale  battle- 
ground, and  the  pink  bottle  of  rose  water  set  to 
represent  Von  Hindenburg  while  the  green  phial 
of  smelling  salts  was  Joffre  or  Brussilov.  We 
fought  out  the  battle  of  the  Marne  pretty  com- 
pletely on  the  perfume  counter.  "Warte  dock!" 
he  would  cry.  "Just  wait!  You  will  see!  All 
the  world  is  against  her,  but  Germany  will  win!" 

Poor  Minna  was  always  afraid  her  husband  and 
I  would  quarrel.  She  knew  well  how  opposite 
our  sympathies  were;  she  could  not  understand 
that  our  arguments  were  wholly  lacking  in  per- 
sonal animus.  When  I  told  him  of  the  Allies' 
growing  superiority  in  aircraft  Rhubarb  would 
retort  by  showing  me  clippings  about  the  German 
trench  fortifications,  the  "pill  boxes"  made  of 
solid  cement.  *  I  would  speak  of  the  deadly  curtain 
fire  of  the  British;  he  would  counter  with  mys- 
terious allusions  to  Krupp.  And  his  conclusions 
were  always  the  same.  "Just  wait!  Germany 
will  win!"  And  he  would  stroke  his  beard  plac- 
idly. "But,  Fritz!"  Minna  used  to  cry  in  a 
panic,  "The  gentleman  might  think  differently!" 
Rhubarb  and  I  would  grin  at  each  other,  I  would 
buy  a  tin  of  tobacco,  and  we  would  say  good 
night. 

How  dear  is  the  plain,  unvarnished  human 
being  when  one  sees  him  in  a  true  light!  Schulz's 


134  SHANDYGAFF 

honest,  kindly  face  seemed  to  me  to  typify  all 
that  I  knew  of  the  finer  qualities  of  the  Germans; 
the  frugal  simplicity,  the  tenderness,  the  proud, 
stiff  rectitude.  He  and  I  felt  for  each  other,  1 
think,  something  of  the  humorous  friendliness  of 
the  men  in  the  opposing  trenches.  Chance  had 
cast  us  on  different  sides  of  the  matter.  But 
when  I  felt  tempted  to  see  red,  to  condemn  the 
Germans  en  masse,  to  chant  litanies  of  hate,  I  used 
to  go  down  to  the  drugstore  for  tobacco  or  a  mug 
of  chocolate.  Rhubarb  and  I  would  argue  it  out. 

But  that  was  a  hard  winter  for  him.  The  grow- 
ing anti-German  sentiment  in  .the  neighbour- 
hood reduced  his  business  considerably.  Then 
he  was  worried  over  Minna.  Often  she  did  not 
appear  in  the  evenings,  and  he  would  explain 
that  she  had  gone  to  bed.  I  was  all1  the  more  sur- 
prised to  meet  her  one  very  snowy  Sunday  after- 
noon, sloshing  along  the  road  in  the  liquid  mire, 
the  little  dog  squattering  sadly  behind,  her  small 
black  paws  sliding  on  the  ice-crusted  paving. 
"What  on  earth  are  you  doing  outdoors  on  a  day 
like  this?  "I  said. 

"Fritz  had  to  go  to  Brooklyn,  and  I  thought  he 
would  be  angry  if  Lischen  didn't  get  her  airing." 

"You  take  my  advice  and  go  home  and  get  into 
some  dry  clothes,"  I  said  severely. 

Soon  after  that  I  had  to  go  away  for  three 


SHANDYGAFF  135 

weeks.  I  was  snowbound  in  Massachusetts  for 
several  days;  then  I  had  to  go  to  Montreal  on 
urgent  business.  Julia  went  to  the  city  to  visit 
her  mother  while  I  was  away,  so  we  had  no  news 
from  Kings. 

We  got  back  late  one  Sunday  evening.  The 
plumbing  had  frozen  in  our  absence;  when  I  lit  the 
furnace  again,  pipes  began  to  thaw  and  for  an 
hour  or  so  we  had  a  lively  time.  In  the  course  of 
a  battle  with  a  pipe  and  a  monkey  wrench  I 
sprained  a  thumb,  and  the  next  morning  I  stopped 
at  the  drug-store  on  my  way  to  the  train  to  get 
some  iodine. 

Rhubarb  was  at  his  prescription  counter  weigh- 
ing a  little  cone  of  white  powder  in  his  apothe- 
cary's scales.  He  looked  far  from  well.  There 
were  great  pouches  under  his  eyes;  his  beard  was 
unkempt;  his  waistcoat  spotted  with  food  stains. 
The  lady  waiting  received  her  package,  and  went 
out.  Rhubarb  and  I  grasped  hands. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "what  do  you  think  now  about 
the  war?  Did  you  see  that  the  Canadians  took  a 
mile  of  trenches  five  hundred  yards  deep  last 
week?  Do  you  still  think  Germany  will  win?" 
To  my  surprise  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  began 
apparently  rummaging  along  a  row  of  glass  jars. 
His  gaze  seemed  to  be  fastened  upon  a  tall  bottle 
containing  ethyl  alcohol.  At  last  he  turned 


136  SHANDYGAFF 

round.  His  broad,  naive  face  was  quivering  like 
blanc-mange. 

"What  do  I  care  who  wins?"  he  said.  "What 
does  it  matter  to  me  any  more?  Minna  is  dead. 
She  died  two  weeks  ago  of  pneumonia." 

As  I  stood,  not  knowing  what  to  say,  there  was 
a  patter  along  the  floor.  The  little  dachshund 
came  scampering  into  the  shop  and  frisked  about 
my  feet. 


THE  HAUNTING  LZAUTY  OF 
STRYCHNINE 

A  LITTLE-KNOWN  TOWN  OF  UNEARTHLY  BEAUTY 

SLOWLY,  reluctantly  (rather  like  a  vers 
libre  poem)  the  quaint  little  train  comes  to 
a  stand.  Along  the  station  platform  each 
of  the  fiacre  drivers  seizes  a  large  dinner-bell  and 
tries  to  outring  the  others.  You  step  from  the 
railway  carriage — and  instantly  the  hellish  din  of 
those  droschky  bells  faints  into  a  dim,  far-away 
tolling.  Your  eye  has  caught  the  superb  sweep 
of  the  Casa  Grande  beetling  on  its  crag.  Over  the 
sapphire  canal  where  the  old  men  are  fishing  for 
sprats,  above  the  rugged  scarp  where  the  blue- 
bloused  ouvriers  are  quarrying  the  famous  cham- 
pagne cheese,  you  see  the  Gothic  transept  of  the 
Palazzio  Ginricci,  dour  against  a  nacre  sky.  An 
involuntary  tremolo  eddies  down  your  spinal 
marrow.  The  Gin  Palace,  you  murmur.  .  .  . 
At  last  you  are  in  Strychnine. 

Unnoted  by  Baedeker,  unsung  by  poets,  un- 
rhapsodied  by  press  agents — there  lurks  the  little 
town  of  Strychnine  in  that  far  and  untravelled 

137 


138  SHANDYGAFF 

corner  where  France,  Russia,  and  Liberia  meet 
in  an  unedifying  Zollverein.  The  strychnine 
baths  have  long  been  famous  among  physicians, 
but  the  usual  ruddy  tourist  knows  them  not.  The 
sorrowful  ennui  of  a  ten-hour  journey  on  the 
B.  V.  D.  Chemise  de  fer  (with  innumerable  ex- 
aminations of  luggage),  while  it  has  kept  out  the 
contraband  Swiss  cheese  which  is  so  strictly  inter- 
dicted, has  also  kept  away  the  rich  and  garrulous 
tourist.  But  he  who  will  endure  to  the  end  that 
tortuous  journey  among  flat  fields  of  rye  and 
parsimony,  will  find  himself  well  rewarded.  The 
long  tunnel  through  Mondragone  ends  at  length, 
and  you  find  yourself  on  the  platform  with  the 
droschky  bells  clanging  in  your  ears  and  the  ineff- 
able majesty  of  the  Casa  Grande  crag  soaring  be- 
hind the  jade  canal. 

The  air  was  chill,  and  I  buttoned  my  surtout 
tightly  as  I  stepped  into  the  curious  seven-wheeled 
sforza  lettered  Hotel  Decameron.  We  rumbled 
andante  espressivo  over  the  hexagonal  cobbles  of 
the  Chaussee  d' Arsenic,  crossed  the  mauve  canal 
and  bent  under  the  hanging  cliffs  of  the  cheese 
quarries.  I  could  see  the  fishwives  carrying  great 
trays  of  lampreys  and  lambrequins  toward  the  fish 
market.  It  is  curious  what  quaintly  assorted  im- 
pressions one  receives  in  the  first  few  minutes  in  a 
strange  place.  I  remember  noticing  a  sausage 


SHANDYGAFF  139 

kiosk  in  the  markt-platz  where  a  man  in  a  white 
coat  was  busily  selling  hot  icons.  They  are  de- 
livered fresh  every  hour  from  the  Casa  Grande 
(the  great  cheese  cathedral)  on  the  cliff. 

The  Hotel  Decameron  is  named  after  Boccaccio, 
who  was  once  a  bartender  there.  It  stands  in  a 
commanding  position  on  the  Place  Nouveau  Riche 
overlooking  the  Casino  and  the  odalisk  erected  by 
Edward  VII  in  memory  of  his  cure.  After  two 
weeks  of  the  strychnine  baths  the  merry  monarch 
is  said  to  have  called  for  a  corncob  pipe  and  a 
plate  of  onions,  after  which  he  made  his  escape 
by  walking  over  the  forest  track  to  the  French 
frontier,  although  previous  to  this  he  had  not 
walked  a  kilometer  without  a  cane  since  John  Bull 
won  the  Cowes  regatta.  The  haut  ton  of  the  sec- 
tion in  which  the  Hotel  Decameron  finds  itself 
can  readily  be  seen  by  the  fact  that  the  campa- 
nile of  the  Duke  of  Marmalade  fronts  on  the  rue 
Sauterne,  just  across  from  the  barroom  of  the 
Hotel.  The  antiquaries  say  there  is  an  under- 
ground corridor  between  the  two. 

The  fascinations  of  a  stay  in  Strychnine  are 
manifold.  I  have  a  weak  heart,  so  I  did  not  try 
the  baths,  although  I  used  to  linger  on  the  terrace 
of  the  Casino  about  sunset  to  hear  Tinpanni's  band 
and  eat  a  bronze  bowl  of  Kerosini's  gooseberry 
fool.  I  spent  a  great  deal  of  my  time  exploring 


140  SHANDYGAFF 

the  chief  glory  of  the  town,  the  Casa  Grande, 
which  stands  on  the  colossal  crag  honeycombed 
underneath  with  the  shafts  and  vaults  of  the 
cheese  mine.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  more 
entrancing  than  to  stand  (with  a  vinaigrette  at 
one's  nose)  on  the  ramp  of  the  Casa,  looking  down 
over  the  ochre  canal,  listening  to  the  hoarse 
shouts  of  the  workmen  as  they  toil  with  pick  and 
shovel,  laying  bare  some  particularly  rich  lode  of 
the  pale,  citron-coloured  cheese  which  will  some 
day  make  Strychnine  a  place  of  pelerinage  for  all 
the  world.  Pay  homage  to  the  frontage  is  a  rough 
translation  of  the  motto  of  the  town,  which  is  car- 
ved in  old  Gothic  letters  on  the  apse  of  the  Casa 
itself.  Limberg,  Gruyere,  Alkmaar,  Neufchatel, 
Camembert  and  Hoboken — all  these  famous 
cheeses  will  some  day  pale  into  whey  before  the 
puissance  of  the  Strychnine  curd.  I  was  signally 
honoured  by  an  express  invitation  of  the  bur- 
gomaster to  be  present  at  a  meeting  of  the  Cheese- 
mongers' Guild  at  the  Rathaus.  The  Kurd- 
meister,  who  is  elected  annually  by  the  town  coun- 
cil, spoke  most  eloquently  on  the  future  of  the 
cheese  industry,  and  a  curious  rite  was  performed. 
Before  the  entrance  of  the  ceremonial  cheese, 
which  is  cut  by  the  Kurdmeister  himself,  all  those 
present  donned  oxygen  masks  similar  to  those 
devised  by  the  English  to  combat  the  German 


SHANDYGAFF  141 

poison -gas.  And  I  learned  that  oxygen  helmets 
are  worn  by  the  workmen  in  the  quarries  to  pre- 
vent prostration. 

It  was  with  unfeigned  regret  that  I  found  my 
fortnight  over.  I  would  gladly  have  lingered  in 
the  medieval  cloisters  of  the  Gin  Palace,  and  sat 
for  many  mornings  under  the  pistachio  trees  on 
the  terrace  sipping  my  verre  of  native  wine.  But 
duties  recalled  me  to  the  beaten  paths  of  travel, 
and  once  more  I  drove  in  the  old-fashioned  am- 
bulance to  catch  my  even  more  old-fashioned  train. 
The  B.  V.  D.  trains  only  leave  Strychnine  when 
there  is  a  stern  wind,  as  otherwise  the  pungent 
fumes  of  the  cheese  carried  in  the  luggage  van  are 
very  obnoxious  to  the  passengers.  Some  day 
some  American  efficiency  expert  will  visit  the 
town  and  teach  them  to  couple  their  luggage  van 
on  to  the  rear  of  the  train.  But  till  then  Strych- 
nine will  be  to  me,  and  to  every  other  traveller 
who  may  chance  that  way,  a  fragrant  memory. 

And  as  you  enter  the  tunnel,  the  last  thing  you 
see  is  the  onyx  canal  and  the  old  women  fishing 
for  lambrequins  and  palfreys. 


INGO 


" ZUM  ANDENKEN  " 


THE  first  night  we  sat  down  at  the  inn 
table  for  supper  I  lost  my  heart  to  Ingo ! 
Ingo  was  just  ten  years  old.  He  wore 
a  little  sailor  suit  of  blue  and  white  striped 
linen;  his  short  trousers  showed  chubby  brown 
calves  above  his  white  socks;  his  round  golden 
head  cropped  close  in  the  German  fashion.  His 
blue  eyes  were  grave  and  thoughtful.  By  great 
good  fortune  we  sat  next  each  other  at  table,  and 
in  my  rather  grotesque  German  I  began  a  conver- 
sation. How  careful  Ingo  was  not  to  laugh  at  the 
absurdities  of  my  syntax!  How  very  courteous 
he  was! 

Looking  back  into  the  mysterious  panorama  of 
pictures  that  we  call  memory,  I  can  see  the  long 
dining  room  of  the  old  gasthaus  in  the  Black 
Forest,  where  two  Americans  on  bicycles  appeared 
out  of  nowhere  and  asked  for  lodging.  They 
were  the  first  Americans  who  had  ever  been  seen 
in  that  remote  valley,  and  the  Gasthaus  zur 
Krone  ("the  Crown  Inn")  found  them  very 

142 


SHANDYGAFF  143 

amusing.  Perhaps  you  have  never  seen  a  coun- 
try tavern  in  the  Schwarzwald?  Then  you  have 
something  to  live  for.  A  long,  low  building  with 
a  moss-grown  roof  and  tremendous  broad  eaves 
sheltering  little  galleries;  and  the  barn  under  the 
same  roof  for  greater  warmth  in  winter.  One 
side  of  the  house  was  always  strong  with  an  excel- 
lent homely  aroma  of  cow  and  horse;  one  had  only 
to  open  a  door  in  the  upper  hall,  a  door  that 
looked  just  like  a  bedroom  entrance,  to  find  one- 
self in  the  haymow.  There  I  used  to  lie  for  hours 
reading,  and  listening  to  the  summer  rain  thud- 
ding on  the  shingles.  Sitting  in  the  little  gallery 
under  the  eaves,  looking  happily  down  the  white 
road  where  the  yellow  coach  brought  the  mail 
twice  a  day,  one  could  see  the  long  vista  of  the 
valley,  the  women  with  bright  red  jackets  work- 
ing in  the  fields,  and  the  dark  masses  of  forest 
on  the  hillside  opposite.  There  was  much  rain 
that  summer;  the  mountains  were  often  veiled  all 
day  long  in  misty  shreds  of  cloud,  and  the  two 
Americans  sat  with  pipes  and  books  at  the  long 
dining  table,  greeted  by  gales  of  laughter  on  the 
part  of  the  robust  landlord's  niece  when  they 
essayed  the  native  idiom.  "  Sie  arbeiten  immer!" 
she  used  to  say;  "Sie  werden  krank!"  ("You're 
always  working;  you'll  be  ill!") 

There    is    a    particular   poignance    in    looking 


144  SHANDYGAFF 

back  now  on  those  happy  days  two  years  before 
the  war.  Nowhere  in  all  the  world,  I  suppose, 
are  there  more  cordial,  warmhearted,  simple, 
human  people  than  the  South  Germans.  On  the 
front  of  the  inn  there  was  a  big  yellow  metal  sign, 
giving  the  military  number  of  the  district,  and 
the  mobilization  points  for  the  Landsturm  and 
the  Landwehr,  and  we  realized  that  even  here  the 
careful  organization  of  the  military  power  had 
numbered  and  ticketed  every  village.  But  what 
did  it  mean  to  us?  War  was  a  thing  unthinkable 
in  those  days.  We  bicycled  everywhere,  climbed 
mountains,  bathed  in  waterfalls,  chatted  fluent  and 
unorthodox  German  with  everyone  we  met,  and 
played  games  with  Ingo. 

Dear  little  Ingo!  At  the  age  when  so  many 
small  boys  are  pert,  impudent,  self-conscious,  he 
was  the  simplest,  happiest,  gravest  little  creature. 
His  hobby  was  astronomy,  and  often  I  would  find 
him  sitting  quietly  in  a  corner  with  a  book  about 
the  stars.  On  clear  evenings  we  would  walk 
along  the  road  together,  in  the  mountain  hush 
that  was  only  broken  by  the  brook  tumbling  down 
the  valley,  and  he  would  name  the  constellations 
for  me.  His  little  round  head  was  thrilled  through 
and  through  by  the  immense  mysteries  of  space ; 
sometimes  at  meal  times  he  would  fall  into  a  muse, 
forgetting  his  beef  and  gravy.  Once  I  asked  him 


SHANDYGAFF  145 

at  dinner  what  he  was  thinking  of.  He  looked 
up  with  his  clear  gray-blue  eyes  and  flashing 
smile :  "  Von  den  Sternen ! "  (" Of  the  stars.") 

The  time  after  supper  was  reserved  for  games, 
in  which  Wolfgang,  Ingo's  smaller  brother  (aged 
seven),  also  took  part.  Our  favourite  pastimes 
were  "Irrgarten"  and  "Galgenspiel,"  in  which  we 
found  enormous  amusement.  Galgenspiel  was 
Ingo's  translation  of  "Hangman,"  a  simple 
pastime  which  had  sometimes  entertained  my  own 
small  brother  on  rainy  days;  apparently  it  was 
new  in  Germany.  One  player  thinks  of  a  word, 
and  sets  down  on  paper  a  dash  for  each  letter  in 
this  word.  It  is  the  task  of  the  other  to  guess 
the  word,  and  he  names  the  letters  of  the  alphabet 
one  by  one.  Every  time  he  mentions  a  letter  that 
is  contained  in  the  word  you  must  set  it  down  in 
its  proper  place  in  the  word,  but  every  time  he 
mentions  a  letter  that  is  not  in  the  word  you  draw 
a  portion  of  a  person  depending  from  a  gallows; 
the  object  of  course  being  for  him  to  guess  the 
word  before  you  finish  drawing  the  effigy.  We 
played  the  game  entirely  in  German,  and  I  can 
still  see  Ingo's  intent  little  face  bent  over  my  pre- 
posterous drawings,  cudgelling  his  quick  and 
happy  little  brain  to  spot  the  word  before  the 
hangman  could  finish  his  grim  task.  "Quick, 
Ingo!"  I  would  cry.  "You  will  get  yourself 


146  SHANDYGAFF 

hung!"  and  he  would  laugh  in  his  own  lovable 
way.  There  was  never  a  jollier  way  of  learning  a 
foreign  language  than  by  playing  games  with 
Ingo. 

The  other  favourite  pastime  was  drawing  mazes 
on  paper,  labyrinths  of  winding  paths  which  must 
be  traversed  by  a  pencil  point.  The  task  was  to 
construct  a  maze  so  complicated  that  the  other 
could  not  find  his  way  out,  starting  at  the  middle. 
We  would  sit  down  at  opposite  ends  of  the  room 
to  construct  our  mysteries  of  blind  alleys  and 
misleading  passages,  then  each  one  would  be 
turned  loose  in  the  "irrgarten  "  drawn  by  the  other. 
Ingo  would  stand  at  my  side  while  I  tried  in 
obstinate  stupidity  to  find  my  way  through  his 
little  puzzle ;  his  eager  heart  inside  his  sailor 
blouse  would  pound  like  a  drum  when  I  was  near- 
ing  the  dangerous  places  where  an  exit  might  be 
won.  He  would  hold  his  breath  so  audibly,  and 
his  blue  eyes  would  grow  so  anxious,  that  I  always 
knew  when  not  to  make  the  right  turning,  and 
my  pencil  would  wander  on  in  hopeless  despair 
until  he  had  mercy  on  me  and  led  me  to  freedom. 

After  lunch  every  day,  while  waiting  for  the 
mail-coach  to  come  trundling  up  the  valley,  Ingo 
and  I  used  to  sit  in  the  little  balcony  under  the 
eaves,  reading.  He  introduced  me  to  his 
favourite  book  Till  Eulenspiegel,  and  we  sped 


SHANDYGAFF  147 

joyously  through  the  adventures  of  that  immortal 
buffoon  of  German  folk-lore.  We  took  turns 
reading  aloud:  every  paragraph  or  so  I  would 
appeal  for  an  explanation  of  something.  Gen- 
erally I  understood  well  enough,  but  it  was  such 
a  delight  to  hear  Ingo  strive  to  make  the  meaning 
plain.  What  a  puckering  of  his  bright  boyish 
forehead,  what  a  grave  determination  to  elucidate 
the  fable!  What  a  mingling  of  ecstatic  pride  in 
having  a  grown  man  as  pupil,  with  deference  due 
to  an  elder.  Ingo  was  a  born  gentleman  and  in 
his  fiercest  transports  of  glee  never  forgot  his 
manners!  I  would  make  some  purposely  ludi- 
crous shot  at  the  sense,  and  he  would  double  up 
with  innocent  mirth.  His  clear  laughter  would 
ring  out,  and  his  mother,  pacing  a  digestive  stroll 
on  the  highway  below  us,  would  look  up  crying 
in  the  German  way,  "Gott!  wie  er  freut  sick!" 
The  progress  of  our  reading  was  held  up  by  these 
interludes,  but  I  could  never  resist  the  temptation 
to  start  Ingo  explaining. 

Ingo  having  made  me  free  of  his  dearest  book, 
it  was  only  fair  to  reciprocate.  So  one  day 
Lloyd  and  I  bicycled  down  to  Freiburg,  and 
there,  at  a  heavenly  "bookhandler's,"  I  found  a 
copy  of  *  Treasure  Island'  in  German.  Then 
there  was  revelry  in  the  balcony!  I  read  the  tale 
•doud,  and  I  wish  R.  L.  S.  might  have  seen  the 


148  SHANDYGAFF 

shining  of  Ingo's  eyes!  Alas,  the  vividness  of 
the  story  interfered  with  the  little  lad's  sleep,  and 
his  mother  was  a  good  deal  disturbed  about  this 
violent  yarn  we  were  reading  together.  How 
close  he  used  to  sit  beside  me  as  we  read  of  the 
dark  doings  at  the  Admiral  Benbow;  and  how  his 
face  would  fall  when,  clear  and  hollow  from  the 
sounding-board  of  the  hills,  came  the  quick  clop, 
clop  of  the  mail-man's  horses. 

I  don't  know  anything  that  has  ever  gone 
deeper  in  my  memory  than  those  hours  spent 
with  Ingo.  I  have  a  little  snapshot  of  him  I 
took  the  misty,  sorrowful  morning  when  I  bicycled 
away  to  Basel  and  left  the  Gasthaus  zur  Krone 
in  its  mountain  valley.  The  blessed  little  lad 
stands  up  erect  and  stiff  in  the  formal  German 
way,  and  I  can  see  his  blue  eyes  alight  with  friend- 
liness, and  a  little  bit  unhappy  because  his  eccen- 
tric American  comrade  was  going  away  and  there 
would  be  no  more  afternoons  with  Till  Eulen- 
spiegel  on  the  balcony.  I  wonder  if  he  thinks  of 
me  as  often  as  I  do  of  him?  He  gave  me  a  glimpse 
into  the  innocent  heaven  of  a  child's  heart  that  I 
can  never  forget.  By  now  he  is  approaching  six- 
teen, and  I  pray  that  whatever  the  war  may  take 
away  from  me  it  will  spare  me  my  Ingo.  It  is 
strange  and  sad  to  recall  that  his  parting  present 
to  me  was  a  drawing  of  a  Zeppelin,  upon  which  he 


SHANDYGAFF  149 

toiled  manfully  all  one  afternoon.     I  still  have 
it  in  my  scrap-book. 

And  I  wonder  if  he  ever  looks  in  the  old  copy  of 
"HaufFs  Marchen"  that  I  bought  for  him  in  Frei- 
burg, and  sees  the  English  words  that  he  was  to 
learn  how  to  translate  when  he  should  grow  older! 
As  I  remember  them,  they  ran  like  this: 

For  Ingo  to  learn  English  will  very  easy  be 
If  someone  is  as  kind  to  him  as  he  has  been  to  me; 
Plays  games  with  him,  re^ads  fairy  tales,  corrects  all  his  mis- 
takes, 

And  never  laughs  too  loudly  at  the  blunders  that  he  makes — 
Then  he  will  find,  as  I  did,  how  well  two  pleasures  blend: 
To  learn  a  foreign  language,  and  to  make  a  foreign  friend. 

If  I  love  anybody  in  the  world,  I  love  Ingo. 
And  that  is  why  I  cannot  get  up  much  enthusiasm 
for  hymns  of  hate.  / 


HOUSEBROKEN 

ATER  Simmons  had  been  married  two 
years  he  began  to  feel  as  though  he 
needed  a  night  off.  But  he  hesitated  to 
mention  the  fact,  for  he  knew  his  wife  would  feel 
hurt  to  think  that  he  could  dream  of  an  evening 
spent  elsewhere  than  in  their  cosy  sitting  room. 
However,  there  were  no  two  ways  about  it :  the  old 
unregenerate  male  in  Simmons  yearned  for  some- 
thing more  exciting  than  the  fireside  armchair, 
the  slippers  and  smoking  jacket,  and  the  quiet 
game  of  cards.  Visions  of  the  old  riotous  even- 
ings with  the  boys  ran  through  his  mind;  a  billiard 
table  and  the  click  of  balls;  the  jolly  conversation 
at  the  club,  and  glass  after  glass  of  that  cold 
amber  beer.  The  large  freedom  of  the  city  streets 
at  night,  the  warm  saloons  on  every  corner,  the 
barrooms  with  their  pyramids  of  bottles  flashing 
in  the  gaslight — these  were  the  things  that  made 
a  man's  life  amusing.  And  here  he  was  cooped 
up  in  a  little  cage  in  the  suburbs  like  a  tame  cat ! 

Thoughts  of  this  kind  had  agitated  Simmons  for 
a  long  time,  and  at  last  he  said  something  to  Ethel. 
He  had  keyed  himself  up  to  meet  a  sharp  retort, 

150 


SHANDYGAFF  151 

some  sarcastic  comment  about  his  preferring  a 
beer  garden  to  his  own  home,  even  an  outburst 
of  tears.  But  to  his  amazement  Ethel  took  it 
quite  calmly. 

"Why,  yes,  of  course,  dear,"  she  said.  "It'll 
do  you  good  to  have  an  evening  with  your  friends. " 

A  little  taken  aback,  he  asked  whether  she  would 
rather  he  didn't  go. 

"Why,  no,"  she  answered.  "I  shall  have  a 
lovely  time.  I  won't  be  lonely." 

This  was  on  Monday.  Simmons  planned  to  go 
out  on  Friday  night,  meeting  the  boys  for  dinner 
at  the  club,  and  after  that  they  would  spend  the 
evening  at  Boelke's  bowling  alley.  All  the  week 
he  went  about  in  a  glow  of  anticipation.  At  the 
office  he  spoke  in  an  offhand  way  of  the  pleasant 
evenings  a  man  can  have  in  town,  and  pitied  the 
prosaic  beggars  who  never  stir  from  the  house  at 
night. 

On  Friday  evening  he  came  home  hurriedly, 
staying  just  long  enough  to  shave  and  change  his 
collar.  Ethel  had  on  a  pretty  dress  and  seemed 
very  cheerful.  A  strange  sinking  came  over  him 
as  he  saw  the  familiar  room  shining  with  firelight 
and  the  shabby  armchair. 

"Would  you  rather  I  stayed  at  home?"  he 
asked. 

"Not  a  bit,"  she  said,  quite  as  though  she  meant 


152  SHANDYGAFF 

it.  *'  Diana  has  a  steak  in  the  oven,  and  I've  got 
a  new  book  to  read.  I  won't  wait  up  for  you." 

He  kissed  her  and  went  off. 

When  he  got  on  the  trolley  a  sudden  revulsion 
struck  him.  He  was  tired  and  wanted  to  go 
home.  Why  on  earth  spend  the  evening  with  a 
lot  of  drunken  rowdies  when  he  might  be  at  his 
own  hearth  watching  Ethel's  face  bent  over  her 
sewing?  He  saw  little  enough  of  her  anyway. 

At  the  door  of  the  club  he  halted.  Inside,  the 
crowd  was  laughing,  shouting  jests,  dicing  for 
cocktails.  Suddenly  he  turned  and  ran. 

He  cursed  himself  for  a  fool,  but  none  the  less 
an  irresistible  force  seemed  to  draw  him  home. 
On  the  car  he  sat  glurn  and  silent,  wondering  how 
all  the  other  men  could  read  their  papers  so 
contentedly. 

At  last  he  reached  the  modest  little  suburb.  He 
hurried  along  the  street  and  had  almost  entered 
his  gate  when  he  paused. 

Through  the  half -drawn  curtains  he  could  see 
Ethel  sitting  comfortably  by  the  lamp.  She  was 
reading,  and  the  cat  was  in  her  lap.  His  heart 
leaped  with  a  great  throb.  But  how  could  he  go 
in  now?  It  was  barely  eight  o'clock.  After  all 
his  talk  about  a  man's  need  of  relaxation  and 
masculine  comradeship — why,  she  would  never 
stop  laughing!  He  turned  and  tiptoed  away. 


SHANDYGAFF  153 

That  evening  was  a  nightmare  for  Simmons. 
Opposite  his  house  was  a  little  suburban  park,  and 
thither  he  took  himself.  For  a  long  while  he  sat 
on  a  bench  cursing.  Twice  he  started  for  the 
trolley,  and  again  returned.  It  was  a  damp 
autumn  night;  little  by  little  the  chill  pierced  his 
light  coat  and  he  sneezed.  Up  and  down  the 
little  park  he  tramped,  biting  a  dead  cigar.  Once 
he  went  as  far  as  the  drugstore  and  bought  a  box 
of  crackers. 

At  last — it  seemed  years — the  church  chimes 
struck  ten  and  he  saw  the  lights  go  out  in  his 
house.  He  forced  himself  to  make  twenty-five 
more  trips  around  the  gravel  walk  and  then  he 
could  wait  no  longer.  Shivering  with  weariness 
and  cold,  he  went  home. 

He  let  himself  in  with  his  latch  key  and  tiptoed 
upstairs.  He  leaned  over  the  bed  and  Ethel  stir- 
red sleepily. 

"What  time  is  it,  dear?"  she  murmured. 
"You're  early,  aren't  you?" 

"One  o'clock,"  he  lied  bravely — and  just  then 
the  dining-room  clock  struck  half  -past  ten  and  sup- 
ported him. 

"Did  you  have  a  good  time?" 

"Bully— perfectly  bully,"  he  said.  "There's 
nothing  like  a  night  with  the  boys  now  and 
then." 


THE  HILARITY  OF  HILAIRE 

I  REMEMBER  some  friends  of  mine  telling 
me  how  they  went  down  to  Horsham,  in 
Sussex,  to  see  Hilaire  Belloc.  They  found 
him  in  the  cellar,  seated  astraddle  of  a  gigantic 
wine-cask  just  arrived  from  France,  about  to 
proceed  upon  the  delicate  (and  congenial)  task  of 
bottling  the  wine.  He  greeted  them  like  jovial 
Silenus,  and  with  competitive  shouts  of  laughter 
the  fun  went  forward.  The  wine  was  strained, 
bottled,  sealed,  labelled,  and  binned,  the  master 
of  the  vintage  initiating  his  young  visitors  into  the 
rite  with  bubbling  and  infectious  gaiety — impro- 
vising verses,  shouting  with  merriment,  full  of  an 
energy  and  vivacity  almost  inconceivable  to  Saxon 
phlegm.  My  friends  have  always  remembered  it 
as  one  of  the  most  diverting  afternoons  of  their 
lives;  and  after  the  bottling  was  done  and  all  hands 
thoroughly  tired,  he  took  them  a  swinging  tramp 
across  the  Sussex  Downs,  talking  hard  all  the  way. 

I 

That  is  the  Belloc  we  all  know  and  love:  vigor- 
ous, Gallic,  bursting  with  energy,  hospitality,  and 


SHANDYGAFF  155 

wit:  the  enfant  terrible  of  English  letters  for  the 
past  fifteen  years.  Mr.  Joyce  Kilmer's  edition  of 
Belloc's  verses  is  very  welcome.*  His  introduc- 
tion is  charming:  the  tribute  of  an  understanding 
lover.  Perhaps  he  labours  a  little  in  proving 
that  Belloc  is  essentially  a  poet  rather  than  a 
master  of  prose;  perhaps  too  some  of  his  judg- 
ments of  Pater,  Hardy,  Scott,  and  others  of  whom 
one  has  heard,  are  precipitate  and  smack  a  little 
of  the  lecture  circuit :  but  there  is  much  to  be  grate- 
ful for  in  his  affectionate  and  thoughtful  tribute. 
Perhaps  we  do  not  enough  realize  how  outstand- 
ing and  how  engaging  a  figure  Mr.  Belloc  is. 

Hilaire  Belloc  is  of  soldierly,  artistic,  and  let- 
tered blood.  Four  of  his  great-uncles  were  gen- 
erals under  Napoleon.  The  father  of  his  grand- 
mother fought  under  Soult  at  Corunna.  A 
brother  of  his  grandmother  was  wounded  at 
Waterloo. 

His  grandmother,  Louise  Marie  Swanton,  who 
died  in  1890,  lived  both  in  France  and  England, 
and  was  famous  as  the  translator  into  French 
of  Moore's  "Life  of  Byron,"  "Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin,"  and  works  by  Dickens  and  Mrs.  GaskelL 
She  married  Hilaire  Belloc,  an  artist,  whose  pic- 
tures are  in  the  Louvre  and  many  French  mu- 


"Verses  by  Hilaire  Belloc;  with  an  introduction  by  Joyce  Kilmer.  New  York: 
Laurence  J.  Gomme,  1916. 


156  SHANDYGAFF 

seums;  his  tomb  may  be  seen  in  Pere  la  Chaise. 
Their  son  was  Louis  Swanton  Belloc,  a  lawyer, 
who  married  an  English  wife. 

The  only  son  of  this  couple  was  the  present 
Hilaire  Belloc,  born  at  Lacelle  St.  Cloud,  July 
27,  1870— the  "Terrible  Year"  it  was  called- 
until  1914. 

Louis  Belloc  died  in  1872,  and  as  a  very  small 
child  Hilaire  went  to  live  in  Sussex,  the  gracious 
shire  which  both  he  and  Rudyard  Kipling  have 
so  often  and  so  thrillingly  commemorated.  Slin- 
don,  near  Arundel,  became  his  home,  the  rolling 
hills,  clean  little  rivers,  and  picturesque  villages 
of  the  South  Downs  moulded  his  boyish  thoughts. 

In  1883  he  went  to  the  famous  Catholic  school 
at  Edgbaston.  Mr.  Thomas  Seccombe,  in  a 
recent  article  on  Belloc  (from  which  I  dip  a  num- 
ber of  biographical  facts),  quotes  a  description 
of  him  at  this  period: 

"I  remember  very  well  Belloc  coming  to  the 
Oratory  School—  some  time  in  '83,  I  suppose. 
He  was  a  small,  squat  person,  of  the  shaggy 
kind,  with  a  clever  face  and  sharp,  bright  eyes. 
Being  amongst  English  boys,  his  instinctive  com- 
bativeness  made  him  assume  a  decidedly  French 
pose,  and  this  no  doubt  brought  on  him  many  a 
gibe,  which,  we  may  be  equally  sure,  he  was  well 
able  to  return.  I  was  amongst  the  older  boys, 


SHANDYGAFF  157 

and  saw  little  of  him.  But  I  recollect  finding  him 
one  day  studying  a  high  wall  (of  the  old  Oratory 
Church,  since  pulled  down).  It  turned  out  that 
he  was  calculating  its  exact  height  by  some  cryptic 
mathematical  process  which  he  proceeded  to 
explain.  I  concealed  my  awe,  and  did  not  tell 
him  that  I  understood  nothing  of  his  terms,  his 
explanations,  or  deductions;  it  would  have  been 
unsuitable  for  a  big  fellow  to  be  taught  by  a 
'brat.'  In  those  days  the  boys  used  to  act  Latin 
plays  of  Terence,  which  enjoyed  a  certain  celebrity, 
and  from  his  first  year  Belloc  was  remarkable. 
His  rendering  of  the  impudent  servant  maid  was 
the  inauguration  of  a  series  of  triumphs  during 
his  whole  school  career." 

In  '89  Hilaire  left  school,  and  served  for  a 
year  in  the  French  field  artillery,  in  a  regiment 
stationed  at  Toul.  Here  he  revived  the  Gallic 
heritage  which  was  naturally  his,  learned  to  talk 
continually  in  French,  and  to  drink  wine.  You 
will  remember  that  in  "The  Path  to  Rome" 
he  starts  from  Toul;  but  I  cannot  quote  the  pass- 
age; someone  (who  the  devil  is  it?)  has  borrowed 
my  Copy.  It  is  the  perpetual  fate  of  that  book — 
everyone  should  have  six  copies. 

After  the  rough  and  saline  company  of  French 
gunners  it  is  a  comical  contrast  to  find  him  win- 
ning a  scholarship  at  Balliol  College,  Oxford — 


158  SHANDYGAFF 

admittedly  the  most  rarefied  and  azure-pedalled 
precinct  in  England.  He  matriculated  at  Balliol 
in  January,  1895,  and  was  so6n  known  as  one  of  the 
"characters"  of  the  college.  There  was  little  of 
the  lean  and  pallid  clerk  of  Oxenford  in  his  bear- 
ing: he  was  the  Roman  candle  of  the  Junior 
Common  Room,  where  the  vivacious  and  robust 
humour  of  the  barracks  at  Toul  at  first  horrified 
and  then  captivated  the  men  from  the  public 
schools.  Alternately  blasphemous  and  idolatrous 
he  may  have  seemed  to  Winchester  and  Eton: 
a  devil  for  work  and  a  genius  at  play.  He 
swam,  wrestled,  shouted,  rode,  drank,  and  de- 
bated, says  Mr.  Seccombe.  He  read  strange 
books,  swore  strange  oaths,  and  amazed  his 
tutors  by  the  fire  and  fury  of  his  historical 
study.  His  rooms  were  a  continual  focus  of  noise: 
troops  of  friends,  song,  loud  laughter,  and  night- 
long readings  from  Rabelais.  And  probably  his 
battels,  if  they  are  still  recorded  in  the  Balliol 
buttery,  would  show  a  larger  quantity  of  ale  and 
wine  consumed  than  by  any  other  man  who  ever 
made  drinking  a  fine  art  at  Balliol.  Some  day 
perhaps  some  scholar  will  look  the  matter  up. 

Balliol  is  not  beautiful:  more  than  any  other  of 
the  older  colleges  in  Oxford,  she  has  suffered  from 
the  "restorations"  of  the  70's  and  80's.  It  is  a 
favourite  jest  to  pretend  to  confuse  her  with  the 


SHANDYGAFF  159 

Great  Western  Railway  Station,  which  never 
fails  to  bring  a  flush  to  a  Balliol  cheek.  But 
whatever  the  merciless  hand  of  the  architect  has 
done  to  turn  her  into  a  jumble  of  sham  Gothic 
spikes  and  corners,  no  one  can  doubt  her  whole- 
some democracy  of  intellect,  her  passion  for  sound 
scholarship,  and  the  unsurpassable  gift  of  her 
undergraduates  for  the  delicately  obscene.  This 
may  be  the  wake  of  a  tradition  inaugurated  by 
Belloc;  but  I  think  it  goes  farther  back  than  that. 
At  any  rate,  in  Oxford  the  young  energumen 
found  himself  happy  and  merry  beyond  words: 
he  worked  brilliantly,  was  a  notable  figure  in  the 
Unioft  debates,  argued  passionately  against  every 
conventional  English  tradition,  and  attacked  au- 
thority, complacence,  and  fetichism  of  every  kind. 
Never  were  dons  of  the  donnish  sort  more  bril- 
liantly twitted  than  by  young  Belloc.  And, 
partly  because  of  his  failure  to  capture  an  All 
Souls  fellowship  (the  most  coveted  prize  of  intel- 
lectual Oxford)  the  word  "don"  has  retained  a 
tinge  of  acid  in  Belloc's  mind  ever  since.  (Who 
can  read  without  assentive  chuckles  his  delicious 
"Lines  to  a  Don!"  It  was  the  favourite  of  all 
worthy  dons  at  Oxford  when  I  was  there.)  He 
has  never  had  any  reverence  for  a  man  merely 
because  he  held  a  post  of  authority. 
Of  the  Balliol  years  Mr.  Seccombe  says : 


160  SHANDYGAFF 

"•He  was  a  few  years  older  and  more  expe- 
rienced than  most  of  his  college  friends,  but  had 
lost  little  of  the  intoxication,  the  contagion  and 
the  ringing  laughter  of  earliest  manhood.  He 
dazzled  and  infected  everyone  with  his  mockery 
and  his  laughter.  There  never  was  such  an 
undergraduate,  so  merry,  so  learned  in  medieval 
trifling  and  terminology,  so  perfectly  spontaneous 
in  rhapsody  and  extravaganza,  so  positive  and 
final  in  his  judgments — who  spoke  French,  too, 
like  a  Frenchman,  in  a  manner  unintelligible  to 
our  public-school-French-attuned  ears." 

No  one  can  leave  those  Balliol  years  behind 
without  some  hope  to  quote  the  ringing  song  in 
which  Belloc  recalled  them  at  the  time  of  the 
Boer  War.  It  is  the  perfect  expression  of  joyful 
masculine  life  and  overflowing  fellowship.  It 
echoes  unforgettably  in  the  mind. 


TO  THE  BALLIOL  MEN  STILL  IN  AFRICA 

Years  ago  when  I  was  at  Balliol, 

Balliol  men — and  I  was  one — 
Swam  together  in  winter  rivers, 

Wrestled  together  under  the  sun. 
And  still  in  the  heart  of  us,  Balliol,  Balliol, 

Loved  already,  but  hardly  known, 
Welded  us  each  of  us  into  the  others: 

Called  a  levy  and  chose  her  own. 


SHANDYGAFF  161 

Here  is  a  House  that  armours  a  man 

With  the  eyes  of  a  boy  and  the  heart  of  a  ranger, 
And  a  laughing  way  in  the  teeth  of  the  world 

And  a  holy  hunger  and  thirst  for  danger: 
Balliol  made  me,  Balliol  fed  me, 

Whatever  I  had  she  gave  me  again: 
And  the  best  of  Balliol  loved  and  led  me, 

God  be  with  you,  Balliol  men. 


I  have  said  it  before,  and  I  say  it  again, 

There  was  treason  done,  and  a  false  word  spoken, 
And  England  under  the  dregs  of  men, 

And  bribes  about,  and  a  treaty  broken: 
But  angry,  lonely,  hating  it  still, 

I  wished  to  be  there  in  spite  of  the  wrong. 
My  heart  was  heavy  for  Cumnor  Hill 

And  the  hammer  of  galloping  all  day  long. 


Galloping  outward  into  the  weather, 

Hands  a-ready  and  battle  in  all : 
Words  together  and  wine  together 

And  song  together  in  Balliol  Hall. 
Rare  and  single!     Noble  and  few!     ...       f 

Oh!  they  have  wasted  you  over  the  sea! 
The  only  brothers  ever  I  knew, 

The  men  that  laughed  and  quarrelled  with  me. 

Balliol  made  me,  Balliol  fed  me, 

Whatever  I  had  she  gave  me  again; 

And  the  best  of  Balliol  loved  and  led  me, 
God  be  with  you,  Balliol  men. 


162  SHANDYGAFF 

Belloc  took  a  First  in  the  Modern  Hist^ 
School  in  1895.  No  one  ever  experienced  more 
keenly  the  tingling  thrill  of  the  eager  student  who 
finds  himself  cast  into  the  heart  of  Oxford's 
abundant  life:  the  thousands  of  books  so  gener- 
ously alive;  the  hundreds  of  acute  and  worthy 
rivals  crossing  steel  on  steel  in  play,  work,  and 
debate;  the  endless  throb  of  passionate  specula- 
tion into  all  the  crowding  problems  of  human 
history.  The  zest  and  fervour  of  those  younger 
days  he  has  never  outgrown,  and  there  are  few 
writers  of  our  time  who  have  appealed  so  im- 
periously to  the  young.  In  the  Oxford  before 
the  war  all  the  undergraduates  were  reading 
Belloc:  you  would  hardly  find  a  college  room  that 
did  not  shelve  one  or  two  of  his  volumes. 

II 

There  is  no  space  to  chronicle  the  life  in  detail. 
The  romantic  voyage  to  California,  and  marriage 
at  twenty-six  (Mrs.  Belloc  died  in  1914);  his  life 
in  Chelsea  and  then  in  Sussex;  the  books  on 
Revolutionary  France,  on  military  history,  biog- 
raphy and  topography;  the  flashing  essays, 
political  satires,  and  whimsical  burlesques  that 
ran  so  swiftly  from  his  pen — it  did  not  take  Eng- 
land long  to  learn  that  this  man  was  very  much 
alive.  In  1903  he  was  naturalized  as  a  British 


SHANDYGAFF  163 

subject,  and  humorously  contemplated  changing 
his  name  to  "Hilary  Bullock.''  In  1906  he  joined 
the  Liberal  benches  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
but  the  insurgent  spirit  that  had  cried  out  in 
college  debates  against  the  lumbering  shams  of 
British  political  life  was  soon  stabbing  at  the 
party  system.  Here  was  a  ringing  voice  indeed: 
one  can  hear  that  clear,  scornful  tenor  startling 
the  House  with  its  acid  arraignment  of  parliamen- 
tary stratagems  and  spoils.  As  Mr.  Kilmer 
says,  "British  politicians  will  not  soon  forget 
the  motion  which  Hilaire  Belloc  introduced  one 
day  in  the  early  Spring  of  1008,  that  the  Party 
funds,  hitherto  secretly  administered,  be  pub- 
licly audited.  His  vigorous  and  persistent 
campaign  against  the  party  system  has  placed 
him,  with  Cecil  Chesterton,  in  the  very  front  ranks 
of  those  t6  whom  the  democrats  of  Great  Britain 
must  look  for  leadership  and  inspiration." 

Perhaps  we  can  take  issue  with  Mr.  Kilmer  in 
his  estimate  of  Belloc's  importance  as  a  poet.  He 
is  a  born  singer,  of  course;  his  heart  rises  to  a  lyric 
just  as  his  tongue  to  wine  and  argument  and  his 
legs  to  walking  or  saddle  leather.  But  he  writes 
poetry  as  every  honest  man  should:  in  an  imper- 
ative necessity  to  express  a  passing  squall  of 
laughter,  anger,  or  reverence;  and  in  earnest 
hope  of  being  ^ademned  by  Mr.  W.  S.  Braith- 


164  SHANDYGAFF 

waite,  which  happens  t6  so  few.  His  "The  South 
Country"  will  make  splendid  many  an  anthology. 
But  who  shall  say  that  his  handful  of  verses,  witty, 
debonair,  bacchanalian,  and  tender,  is  his  most 
important  contribution? 

What  needs  to  be  said  is  that  Belloc  is  an  authen- 
tic child  gotten  of  Rabelais.  I  can  never  forget  a 
lecture  I  heard  him  give  in  the  famous  Examina- 
tion Schools  at  Oxford — that  noble  building  con- 
secrated to  human  suffering,  formerly  housing 
the  pangs  of  students  and  now  by  sad  necessity  a 
military  hospital.  Ruddy  of  cheek,  a  burly 
figure  in  his  academic  gown,  without  a  scrap  of 
notes  and  armed  only  with  an  old  volume  of 
Rabelais  in  the  medieval  French,  he  held  us  spell- 
bound for  -  an  hour  and  a  half — or  was  it  three 
hours? — with  flashing  extempore  talk  about  this 
greatest  figure  of  the  Renaissance. 

Rabelais,  he  told  us,  was  the  symbolic  figure  of 
the  incoming  tide  of  Europe's  rebirth  in  the 
sixteenth  century.  Rabelais,  the  priest,  physi- 
cian, and  compounder  of  a  new  fish  sauce,  held 
that  life  is  its  own  justification,  and  need  not  be 
lived  in  doleful  self-abasement.  Do  what  you 
wish,  enjoy  life,  be  interested  in  a  thousand  things, 
feel  a  perpetual  inquisitive  delight  in  all  the  details 
of  human  affairs !  The  gospel  of  exuberance — that 
is  Rabelais.  Is  it  not  Belloc,  too? 


SHANDYGAFF  165 

Rabelais  came  from  Touraine — the  heart  of 
Gaul,  the  island  of  light  in  which  the  tradition  of 
civilization  remained  unbroken.  One  understands 
Rabelais  better  if  one  knows  the  Chinon  wine, 
Belloc  added.  His  writing  is  married  to  the  soil 
and  landscape  from  which  he  sprang.  His  extraor- 
dinary volatility  proceeds  from  a  mind  packed 
full  of  curiosity  and  speculation.  For  an  instance 
of  his  exuberance  see  his  famous  list  of  fools,  in 
which  all  fools  whatsoever  that  ever  walked  on 
earth  are  included. 

Now  no  one  who  loves  Belloc  can  paddle  in 
Rabelais  without  seeing  that  he,  too,  was  sired  from 
Chinon.  Dip  into  Gargantua:  there  you  will  find 
the  oinolatrous  and  gastrolatrous  catalogues  that 
Belloc  daily  delights  in;  the  infectious  droll  patter 
of  speech,  piling  quip  on  quip.  Then  look  again 
into  "The  Path  to  Rome."  How  well  does  Mr. 
John  Macy  tell  us  "literature  is  not  born  spon- 
taneously out  of  life.  Every  book  has  its  literary 
parentage,  and  criticism  reads  like  an  Old  Test- 
ament chapter  of  'begats.'  Every  novel  was 
suckled  at  the  breasts  of  older  novels." 

Ill 

In  Belloc  we  find  the  perfect  union  of  the 
French  and  English  minds.  Rabelaisian  in  fe- 
cundity, wit,  and  irrepressible  sparkle,  he  is  also  of 


166  SHANDYGAFF 

English  blood  and  sinew,  wedded  to  the  sweet 
Sussex  weald.  History,  politics,  economics,  mili- 
tary topography,  poetry,  novels,  satires,  nonsense 
rhymes — all  these  we  may  set  aside  as  the  hundred 
curiosities  of  an  eager  mind.  (The  dons,  by  the 
way,  say  that  in  his  historical  work  he  generalizes 
too  hastily;  but  was  ever  history  more  crisply 
written?)  It  is  in  the  essays,  the  thousand  little 
inquirendoes  into  the  nature  of  anything,  every- 
thing or  nothing,  that  one  comes  closest  to  the  real 
man.  His  prose  leaps  and  sparks  from  the  pen. 
It  is  whimsical,  tender,  biting,  garrulous.  It  is 
familiar  and  unfettered  as  open-air  talk.  His 
passion  for  places — roads,  rivers,  hills,  and  inns; 
his  dancing  persiflage  and  buoyancy;  his  Bor- 
rovian  love  of  vagabondage — these  are  the  glories 
of  a  style  that  is  quick,  close-knit,  virile,  and  vi- 
brant. Here  Belloc  ranks  with  Bunyan,  Swift, 
and  Defoe. 

Whoso  dotes  upon  fine  prose,  prose  interlaced 
with  humour,  pathos,  and  whim,  orchestrated  to  a 
steady  rhythm,  coruscated  with  an  exquisite 
tenderness  for  all  that  is  lovable  and  high  spirited 
on  this  dancing  earth,  go  you  now  to  some  book- 
seller and  procure  for  yourself  a  little  volume 
called  "A  Picked  Company"  where  Mr.  E.  V. 
Lucas  has  gathered  some  of  the  best  of  Mr. 
pieces.  Therein  will  you  find  love  of 


SHANDYGAFF  167 

food,  companionship,  cider  and  light  wines; 
love  of  children,  artillery,  and  inns  in  the  out- 
lands;  love  of  salt  water,  great  winds,  and  brown 
hills  at  twilight — in  short,  passionate  devotion  to 
all  the  dear  devices  that  make  life  so  sweet.  Hear 
him  on  "A  Great  Wind": 

A  great  wind  is  every  man's  friend,  and  its  strength  is  the 
strength  of  good  fellowship;  and  even  doing  battle  with  it  is 
something  worthy  and  well  chosen.  It  is  health  in  us,  I  say, 
to  be  full  of  heartiness  and  of  the  joy  of  the  world,  and  of 
whether  we  have  such  health  our  comfort  in  a  great  wind  is  a 
good  test  indeed.  No  man  spends  his  day  upon  the  moun- 
tains when  the  wind  is  out,  riding  against  it  or  pushing  forward 
on  foot  through  the  gale,  but  at  the  end  of  his  day  feels  that 
he  has  had  a  great  host  about  him.  It  is  as  though  he  had 
experienced  armies.  The  days  of  high  winds  are  days  of 
innumerable  sounds,  innumerable  in  variation  of  tone  and  of 
intensity,  playing  upon  and  awakening  innumerable  powers 
in  man.  And  the  days  of  high  wind  are  days  in  which  a 
physical  compulsion  has  been  about  us  and  we  have  met  pres- 
sure and  blows,  resisted  and  turned  them;  it  enlivens  us  with 
the  simulacrum  of  war  by  which  nations  live,  and  in  the  just 
pursuit  of  which  men  in  companionship  are  at  their  noblest. 

IV 

And  lest  all  this  disjointed  talk  about  Belloc's 
prose  seem  but  ungracious  recognition  of  Mr. 
Kilmer's  service  in  reminding  us  of  the  poems, 
let  us  thank  him  warmly  for  his  essay.  Let  us 
thank  him  for  impressing  upon  us  that  there  are 


168  SHANDYGAFF 

living  to-day  men  who  write  as  nobly  and  simply 
as  Belloc  on  Sussex,  with  his  sweet  broken  music: 

I  never  get  between  the  pines 

But  I  smell  the  Sussex  air; 
Nor  I  never  come  on  a  belt  of  sand 

But  my  home  is  there. 
And  along  the  sky  the  line  of  the  Downs 

So  noble  and  so  bare. 

&  lost  thing  could  I  never  find, 

Nor  a  broken  thing  mend: 
And  I  fear  I  shall  be  all  alone 

When  I  get  towards  the  end. 
Who  will  there  be  to  comfort  me 

Or  who  will  be  my  friend? 

I  will  gather  and  carefully  make  my  friends 

Of  the  men  of  the  Sussex  Weald, 
They  watch  the  stars  from  silent  folds, 

They  stiffly  plough  the  field. 
By  them  and  the  God  of  the  South  Country 

My  poor  soul  shall  be  healed. 

If  I  ever  become  a  rich  man, 

Or  if  ever  I  grow  to  be  old, 
I  will  build  a  house  with  deep  thatch 

To  shelter  me  from  the  cold, 
And  there  shall  the  Sussex  songs  be  sung 

And  the  story  of  Sussex  told. 

I  will  hold  my  house  in  the  high  wood 

Within  a  walk  of  the  sea, 
And  the  men  that  were,  boys  when  I  was  a  boy 

Shall  sit  ?,nd  drink  with  me. 


A  CASUAL  OF  THE  SEA 

He  that  will  learn  to  pray,  let  him  go  to  sea. 

— GEORGE  HERBERT. 

BOOKS  sometimes  make  surprising  connec- 
tions with  life.  Fifteen-year-old  Tommy 
Jonkers,  shipping  as  O.  S.  (ordinary 
seaman)  on  the  S.  S.  Fernfield  in  Glasgow  in 
1911,  could  hardly  have  suspected  that  the  sec- 
ond engineer  would  write  a  novel  and  put  him 
in  it;  or  that  that  same  novel  would  one  day  lift 
him  out  of  focsle  and  galley  and  set  him  working 
for  a  publishing  house  on  far-away  Long  Island. 
Is  it  not  one  more  proof  of  the  surprising  power 
of  the  written  word  ? 

For  Tommy  is  not  one  of  those  who  expect  to 
find  their  names  in  print.  The  mere  sight  of  his 
name  on  a  newspaper  page,  in  an  article  I  wrote 
about  him,  brought  (so  he  naively  told  me)  tears 
to  his  eyes.  Excellent,  simple-hearted  Tommy! 
How  little  did  you  think,  when  you  signed  on  to 
help  the  Fernfield  carry  coal  from  Glasgow  to 
Alexandria,  that  the  long  arm  of  the  Miehle  press 
was  already  waiting  for  you;  that  thousands  oi 


170  SHANDYGAFF 

good  people  reading  a  certain  novel  would  be 
familiar  with  your  "round  rosy  face  and  clear 
sea-blue  eyes." 

"Tommy"  (whose  real  name  is  Drevis)  was  born 
in  Amsterdam  in  18960  His  father  was  a  fireman 
at  sea,  and  contributed  next  to  nothing  to  the 
support  of  Tommy  and  his  pretty  little  sister 
Greta.  They  lived  with  their  grandmother,  near 
the  quays  in  Amsterdam,  where  the  masts  of 
ships  and  the  smell  of  tar  interfered  with  their 
lessons.  Bread  and  treacle  for  breakfast,  black 
beans  for  lunch,  a  fine  thick  stew  and  plenty  more 
bread  for  supper — that  and  the  Dutch  school 
where  he  stood  near  the  top  of  his  class  are  what 
Tommy  remembers  best  of  his  boyhood.  His 
grandmother  took  in  washing,  and  had  a  hard 
time  keeping  the  little  family  going.  She  was  a 
fine,  brusque  old  lady  and  as  Tommy  went  off 
to  school  in  the  mornings  she  used  to  frown  at 
him  from  the  upstairs  window  because  his  hands 
were  in  his  pockets.  For  as  everybody  knows, 
only  slouchy  good-for-nothings  walk  to  school 
with  pocketed  hands. 

Tommy  did  so  well  in  his  lessons  that  he  was 
one  of  the  star  pupils  given  the  privilege  of  learn- 
ing an  extra  language  in  the  evenings.  He  chose 
English  because  most  of  the  sailors  he  met 
talked  English,  and  his  great  ambition  was  to  be  a 


SHANDYGAFF  171 

seaman.  His  uncle  was  a  quartermaster  in  the 
Dutch  navy,  and  his  father  was  at  sea;  and 
Tommy's  chance  soon  came. 

After  school  hours  he  used  to  sell  postcards^ 
cologne,  soap,  chocolates,  and  other  knicknacks 
to  the  sailors,  to  earn  a  little  cash  to  help  his 
grandmother.  One  afternoon  in  the  spring  of 
1909  he  was  down  on  the  docks  with  his  little 
packet  of  wares,  when  a  school  friend  came 
running  to  him. 

"Drevis,  Drevis!"  he  shouted,  "they  want  a 
mess-room  boy  on  the  Queen  Eleanor!" 

It  didn't  take  Drevis  long  to  get  aboard  the 
Queen  Eleanor,  a  British  tramp  out  of  Glasgow, 
bound  for  Hamburg  and  Vladivostok.  He  accosted 
the  chief  engineer,  his  blue  eyes  shining  eagerly. 

"Yes,"  says  the  chief,  "I  need  a  mess-room 
steward  right  away — we  sail  at  four  o'clock." 

"Try  me!"  pipes  Drevis.  (Bless  us,  the  boy 
was  barely  thirteen!) 

The  chief  roars  with  laughter. 

"Too  small!  "he  says. 

Drevis  insisted  that  he  was  just  the  boy  for 
mess-room  steward. 

"Well,"  says  the  chief,  "go  home  and  put  on  a 
pair  of  long  pants  and  come  back  again.  Then 
we'll  see  how  you  look!" 

Tommy  ran  home  rejoicing.     His  Uncle  Hen- 


172  SHANDYGAFF 

drick  was  a  small  man,  and  Tommy  grabbed  a 
pair  of  his  trousers.  Thus  fortified,  he  hastened 
back  to  the  Queen  Eleanor.  The  chief  cackled, 
but  he  took  him  on  at  two  pounds  five  a  month. 

Tommy  didn't  last  long  as  mess-room  boy. 
He  broke  so  many  cups  the  engineers  had  to 
drink  out  of  dippers,  and  they  degraded  him  to 
cabin  boy  at  a  pound  a  month.  Even  as  cabin 
boy  he  was  no  instant  success.  He  used  to  forget 
to  empty  the  chief's  slop-pail,  and  the  water 
would  overflow  the  cabin.  He  felt  the  force  of  a 
stout  sea  boot  not  a  few  times  in  learning  the 
golden  rubric  of  the  tramp  steamer's  cabin  boy. 

"Drevis"  was  a  strange  name  to  the  English 
seamen,  and  they  christened  him  "Tommy," 
and  that  handle  turns  him  still. 

Tommy's  blue  eyes  and  honest  Netherland  grin 
and  easy  temper  kept  him  friendly  with  all  the 
world.  The  winds  of  chance  sent  him  scudding 
about  the  globe,  a  true  casual  of  the  seas.  His 
first  voyage  as  A.  B.  was  on  the  Fernfield  in  1911, 
and  there  he  met  a  certain  Scotch  engineer.  This 
engineer  had  a  habit  of  being  interested  in  human 
problems,  and  Tommy's  guileless  phiz  attracted 
him.  Under  his  tutelage  Tommy  acquired  a 
thirst  for  promotion,  and  soon  climbed  to  the  rank 
of  quartermaster. 

One  thing  that  always  struck  Tommy  was  the 


SHANDYGAFF  173 

number  of  books  the  engineer  had  in  his  cabin. 
A  volume  of  Nat  Gould,  Ouida  or  "The  Duch- 
ess" would  be  the  largest  library  Tommy  would 
have  found  in  the  other  bunks;  but  here,  before 
his  wondering  gaze,  were  Macaulay,  Gibbon, 
Gorki,  Conrad,  Dickens,  Zola,  Shakespeare,  Mon- 
taigne, Chaucer,  Shaw,  and  what  not.  And 
what  would  Master  Tommy  have  said  had  he 
known  that  his  friend,  even  then,  was  working 
on  a  novel  in  which  he,  Tommy,  would  play  an 
important  role! 

The  years  went  by.  On  sailing  ships,  on  steam 
tramps,  on  private  yachts,  as  seaman,  as  quarter- 
master, as  cook's  helper,  Tommy  drifted  about 
the  world.  One  day  when  he  was  twenty  years 
old  he  was  rambling  about  New  York  just  before 
sailing  for  Liverpool  on  the  steam  yacht  Alvina. 
He  was  one  of  a  strictly  neutral  crew  (the  United 
States  was  still  neutral  in  those  days)  signed  on  to 
take  a  millionaire's  pet  plaything  across  the 
wintry  ocean.  She  had  been  sold  to  the  Russian 
Government  (there  still  was  one  then!) 

Tommy  was  passing  through  the  arcade  of  the 
Pennsylvania  Station  when  his  eye  fell  upon  the 
book  shop  there.  He  was  startled  to  see  in  the 
window  a  picture  of  the  Scotch  engineer — his  best 
friend,  the  only  man  in  the  world  who  had  ever 
been  like  a  father  to  him.  He  knew  that  the 


174  SHANDYGAFF 

engineer  was  far  away  in  the  Mediterraneans 
working  on  an  English  transport.  He  scanned 
the  poster  with  amazement. 

Apparently  his  friend  had  written  a  book. 
Tommy,  like  a  practical  seaman,  went  to  the 
heart  of  the  matter.  He  went  into  the  shop  and 
bought  the  book.  He  fell  into  talk  with  the  book- 
seller, who  had  read  the  book.  He  told  the 
bookseller  that  he  had  known  the  author,  and 
that  for  years  they  had  served  together  on  the 
same  vessels  at  sea.  He  told  how  the  writer,  who 
was  the  former  second  engineer  of  the  Fernfield, 
had  done  many  things  for  the  little  Dutch  lad 
whose  own  father  had  died  at  sea.  Then  came 
another  surprise. 

"I  believe  you're  one  of  the  characters  in  the 
story,"  said  the  bookseller. 

It  was  so.  The  book  was  "Casuals  of  the 
Sea,"  the  author,  William  McFee,  who  had  been 
a  steamship  engineer  for  a  dozen  years;  and 
Drevis  Jonkers  found  himself  described  in  full  in 
the  novel  as  "Drevis  Noordhof,"  and  playing  a 
leading  part  in  the  story.  Can  you  imagine  the 
simple  sailor's  surprise  and  delight?  Pleased 
beyond  measure,  in  his  soft  Dutch  accent  liberally 
flavoured  with  cockney  he  told  the  bookseller 
how  Mr.  McFee  had  befriended' him,  had  urged 
him  to  go  on  studying  navigation  so  that  he  might 


SHANDYGAFF  175 

become  an  officer;  and  that  though  they  had  not 
met  for  several  years  he  still  receives  letters  from 
his  friend,  full  of  good  advice  about  saving  his 
money,  where  to  get  cheap  lodgings  in  Brooklyn, 
and  not  to  fall  into  the  common  error  of  sailors 
in  thinking  that  Hoboken  and  Passyunk  Avenue 
are  all  America.  And  Tommy  went  back  to  his 
yacht  chuckling  with  delight,  with  a  copy  of 
"Casuals  of  the  Sea"  under  his  arm. 

Here  my  share  in  the  adventure  begins.  The 
bookseller,  knowing  my  interest  in  the  book, 
hastened  to  tell  me  the  next  time  I  saw  him  that 
one  of  the  characters  in  the  story  was  in  New 
York.  I  wrote  to  Tommy  asking  him  to  come  to 
see  me.  He  wrote  that  the  Alvina  was  to  sail  the 
next  day,  and  he  could  not  get  away.  I  supposed 
the  incident  was  closed. 

Then  I  saw  in  the  papers  that  the  Alvina  had 
been  halted  in  the  Narrows  by  a  United  States 
destroyer,  the  Government  having  suspected  that 
her  errand  was  not  wholly  neutral.  Rumour  had 
it  that  she  was  on  her  way  to  the  Azores,  there  to 
take  on  armament  for  the  house  of  Romanoff. 
She  was  halted  at  the  Quarantine  Station  at 
Staten  Island,  pending  an  investigation. 

Then  enters  the  elbow  of  coincidence.  Looking 
over  some  books  in  the  very  same  bookshop  where 
Tommy  Imd  bought  his  friend's  novel,  I  over- 


176  SHANDYGAFF 

heard  another  member  of  the  Alvina's  crew  asking 
about  "  Casuals  of  the  Sea."  His  chum  Tommy 
had  told  him  about  his  adventure,  and  he,  too, 
was  there  to  buy  one.  (Not  every  day  do.es  one 
meet  one's  friends  walking  in  a  500-page  novel!) 
By  the  never-to-be-sufficiently-admired  hand  of 
chance  I  was  standing  at  Joe  Hogan's  very  elbow 
when  he  began  explaining  to  the  book  clerk  that 
he  was  a  friend  of  the  Dutch  sailor  who  had  been 
there  a  few  days  before. 

So  a  few  days  later,  behold  me  on  the  Staten 
Island  ferry,  on  my  way  to  see  Tommy  and  the 
Alvina. 

I'm  afraid  I  would  always  desert  the  office  if 
there's  a  plausible  excuse  to  bum  about  the  water- 
front. Is  there  any  passion  in  the  breast  of  man- 
kind more  absorbing  than  the  love  of  ships?  A 
tall  Cunarder  putting  out  to  sea  gives  me  a  keener 
thrill  than  anything  the  Polo  Grounds  or  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  can  show.  Of  what  avail  a 
meeting  of  the  Authors'  League  when  one  can 
know  the  sights,  sounds,  and  smells  of  West  or 
South  Street?  I. used  to  lug  volumes  of  Joseph 
Conrad  down  to  the  West-Street  piers  to  give  them 
to  captains  and  first  mates  of  liners,  and  get  them 
to  talk  about  the  ways  of  the  sea.  That  was  how 
I  met  Captain  Claret  of  the  Minnehaha,  that 
prince  of  seamen;  and  Mr.  Pape  of  the  Orduna, 


SHANDYGAFF  177 

Mr.  Jones  of  the  Lusitania  and  many  another. 
They  knew  all  about  Conrad,  too.  There  were 
five  volumes  of  Conrad  in  the  officers9  cabins  on  the 
Lusitania  when  she  went  down,  God  rest  her.  I 
know, 'because  I  put  them  there. 

And  the  Staten  Island  ferry  is  a  voyage  on  the 
Seven  Seas  for  the  landlubber,  After  months  of 
office  work,  how  one's  heart  leaps  to  greet  our  old 
mother  the  sea!  How  drab,  flat,  and  humdrum 
seem  the  ways  of  earth  in  comparison  to  the  hardy 
and  austere  life  of  ships!  There  on  every  hand 
go  the  gallant  shapes  of  vessels — the  James  L. 
Morgan,  dour  little  tug,  shoving  two  barges; 
Themislodes,  at  anchor,  with  the  blue  and  white 
Greek  colours  painted  on  her  rusty  flank;  the 
Com anche  outward  bound  for  Galveston  (I  think); 
the  Ascalon,  full-rigged  ship,  with  blue-jerseyed 
sailormen  out  on  her  bowspirit  snugging  the  can- 
vas. And  who  is  so  true  a  lover  of  the  sea  as 
one  who  can  suffer  the  ultimate  indignities — and 
love  her  still!  I  am  queasy  as  soon  as  I  sight 
Sandy  Hook.  .  .  . 

At  the  quarantine  station  I  had  a  surprise. 
The  Alvina  was  not  there.  One  old  roustabout 
told  me  he  thought  she  had  gone  to  sea.  I  was 
duly  taken  aback.  Had  I  made  the  two-hour 
trip  for  nothing?  Then  another  came  to  my  aid. 


178  SHANDYGAFF 

"  There  she  is,  up  in  the  bight,"  he  said.  I  folio  wee 
his  gesture,  and  saw  her — a  long,  slim  white  hull, 
a  cream-coloured  funnel  with  a  graceful  rake; 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  fresh  painted  in  two  places 
on  her  shining  side.  I  hailed  a  motor  boat  to 
take  me  out.  The  boatman  wanted  three  dollars, 
and  I  offered  one.  He  protested  that  the  yacht 
was  interned  and  he  had  no  right  to  take  visitors 
out  anyway.  He'd  get  into  trouble  with  "39"- 
"39"  being  a  United  States  destroyer  lying  in  the 
Narrows  a  few  hundred  yards  away.  After  some 
bickering  we  compromised  on  a  dollar  and  a  quarter. 

That  was  a  startling  adventure  for  the  humble 
publisher's  reader!  Wallowing  in  an  ice-glazed 
motor  boat,  in  the  lumpy  water  of  a  "  bight  "- 
surrounded  by  ships  and  the  men  who  sail  them — I 
might  almost  have  been  a  hardy  newspaper  man! 
But  Long  Island  commuters  are  nurtured  to  a 
tough  and  perilous  life,  and  I  clambered  the 
Alvina's  side  without  dropping  hat,  stick,  or  any 
of  my  pocketful  of  manuscripts. 

Joe  Hogan,  the  steward,  was  there  in  his  white 
jacket.  He  introduced  me  to  the  cook,  the  bosun, 
the  "chief,"  the  wireless,  and  the  "second."  The 
first  officer  was  too  heavy  with  liquor  to  notice  the 
arrival  of  a  stranger.  Messrs.  Haig  and  Haig 
those  Dioscuri  of  seamen,  had  been  at  work.  The 
skipper  was  ashore.  He  owns  a  saloon. 


SHANDYGAFF  179 

» 
The  Alvina  is  a  lovely  little  vessel,  215  feet  long, 

they  told  me,  and  about  525  tons.  She  is  fitted 
with  mahogany  throughout;  the  staterooms  all 
have  brass  double  beds  and  private  bathrooms 
attached;  she  has  her  own  wireless  telegraph  and 
telephone,  refrigerating  apparatus,  and  everything 
to  make  the  owner  and  his  guests  comfortable. 
But  her  beautiful  furnishings  were  tumbled  this 
way  and  that  in  preparation  for  the  sterner  duties 
that  lay  before  her.  The  lower  deck  was  cum- 
bered with  sacks  of  coal  lashed  down.  A  trans- 
atlantic voyage  in  January  is  likely  to  be  a  lively 
one  for  a  yacht  of  500  tons. 

I  found  Tommy  below  in  his  bunk,  cleaning  up. 
He  is  a  typical  Dutch  lad — round,  open  face,  fair 
hair,  and  guileless  blue  eyes.  He  showed  me  all  his 
treasures — his  certificates  of  good  conduct  from  all 
the  ships  (both  sail  and  steam)  on  which  he  has 
served;  a  picture  of  his  mother,  who  died  when  he 
was  six;  and  of  his  sister  Greta — a  very  pretty  girl 
— who  is  also  mentioned  in  Casuals  of  the  Sea. 
The  drunken  fireman  in  the  story  who  dies  after  a 
debauch  was  Tommy's  father  who  died  in  the  same 
way.  And  with  these  other  treasures  Tommy 
showed  me  a  packet  of  letters  from  Mr.  McFee. 

I  do  not  want  to  offend  Mr.  McFee  by  describ- 
ing his  letters  to  this  Dutch  sailor-boy  as  "sen- 


180  SHANDYGAFF 

sible,"  but  that  is  just  what  they  were.  Tommy 
is  one  of  his  own  "casuals "- 

— those  frail  craft  upon  the  restless  Sea 
Of  Human  Life,  who  strike  the  rocks  uncharted, 
Who  loom,  sad  phantoms,  near  us,  drearily, 
Storm-driven,  rudderless,  with  timbers  started — 

and  these  sailormen  who  drift  from  port  to  port  on 
the  winds  of  chance  are  most  in  need  of  sound 
Ben  Franklin  advice.  Save  your  money;  put 
it  in  the  bank;  read  books;  go  to  see  the  museums, 
libraries,  and  art  galleries;  get  to  know  something 
about  this  great  America  if  you  intend  to  settle 
down  there — that  is  the  kind  of  word  Tommy  gets 
from  his  friend. 

Gradually,  as  I  talked  with  him,  I  began  to  see 
into  the  laboratory  of  life  where  "Casuals  of  the 
.Sea"  originated.  This  book  is  valuable  because 
it  is  a  triumphant  expression  of  the  haphazard, 
strangely  woven  chances  that  govern  the  lives  of 
the  humble.  In  Tommy's  honest,  gentle  face,  and 
in  the  talk  of  his  shipmates  when  we  sat  down  to 
dinner  together,  I  saw  a  microcosm  of  the  strange 
barren  life  of  the  sea  where  men  float  about  for 
years  like  driftwood.  And  out  of  all  this  ebbing 
tide  of  aimless,  happy-go-lucky  humanity  McFee 
had  chanced  upon  this  boy  from  Amsterdam  and 
had  tried  to  pound  into  him  some  good  sound 
common  sense. 


SHANDYGAFF  181 

When  I  left  her  that  afternoon,  the  Alvina  was 
getting  up  steam,  and  she  sailed  Within  a  few 
hours.  I  had  eaten  and  talked  with  her  crew, 
and  for  a  short  space  had  a  glimpse  of  the  lives 
and  thoughts  of  the  simple,  childlike  men  who 
live  on  ships.  I  realized  for  the  first  time  the 
truth  of  that  background  of  aimless  hazard  that 
makes  "Casuals  of  the  Sea"  a  book  of  more  than 
passing  merit. 

As  for  Tommy,  the  printed  word  had  him  in 
thrall  though  he  knew  it  not.  When  he  got  back 
from  Liverpool,  two  months  later,  I  found  him  a 
job  in  the  engine  room  of  a  big  printing  press. 
He  was  set  to  work  oiling  the  dynamos,  and  at 
ten  dollars  a  week  he  had  a  fine  chance  to  work  his 
way  up.  Indeed,  he  enrolled  in  a  Scran  ton  cor- 
respondence course  on  steam  engineering  and 
enchanted  his  Hempstead  landlady  by  his  simple 
ways.  That  lasted  just  two  weeks.  The  level 
ground  made  Tommy's  feet  uneasy.  The  last  I 
heard  he  was  on  a  steam  yacht  on  Long  Island 
Sound. 

But  wherever  steam  and  tide  may  carry  him, 
Tommy  cherishes  in  his  heart  his  own  private 
badge  of  honour:  his  friend  the  engineer  has  put 
him  in  a  book!  And  there,  in  one  of  the  noblest 
and  most  honest  novels  of  our  day,  you  will  find 
him- — a  casual  of  the  sea! 


THE  LAST  PIPE 

The  last  smoker  I  recollect  among  those  of  the  old  school 
was  a  clergyman.  He  had  seen  the  best  society,  and  was 
a  man  of  the  most  polished  behaviour.  This  did  not  hinder 
him  from  taking  his  pipe  every  evening  before  he  went 
to  bed.  He  sat  in  his  armchair,  his  back  gently  bending, 
his  knees  a  little  apart,  his  eyes  placidly  inclined  toward  the 
fire.  The  end  of  his  recreation  was  announced  by  the 
tapping  of  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  upon  the  hob,  for  the  purpose 
of  emptying  it  of  its  ashes.  Ashes  to  ashes;  head  to  bed. 

— LEIGH  HUNT. 

THE  sensible  man  smokes  (say)  sixteen 
pipefuls  a  day,  and  all  differ  in  value  and 
satisfaction.  In  smoking  there  is,  thank 
heaven,  no  law  of  diminishing  returns.  I  may 
puff  all  day  long  until  I  nigresce  with  the  fumes 
and  soot,  but  the  joy  loses  no  savour  by  repetition. 
It  is  true  that  there  is  a  peculiar  blithe  rich  taste  in 
the  first  morning  puffs,  inhaled  after  breakfast. 
(Let  me  posit  here  the  ideal  conditions  for  a  morn- 
ing pipe  as  I  know  them.)  After  your  bath, 
breakfast  must  be  spread  in  a  chamber  of  eastern 
exposure;  let  there  be  hominy  and  cream,  and  if 
possible,  brown  sugar.  There  follow  scrambled 

182 


SHANDYGAFF  183 

eggs,  shirred  to  a  lemon-yellow,  with  toast  sliced 
in  triangles,  fresh,  unsalted  butter,  and  Scotch 
bitter  marmalade.  Let  there  be  without  fail 
a  platter  of  hot  bacon,  curly,  juicy,  fried  to  the 
debatable  point  where  softness  is  overlaid  with 
the  faintest  crepitation  of  crackle,  of  crispy  ness. 
If  hot  Virginia  corn  pone  is  handy,  so  much  the 
better.  And  coffee,  two-thirds  hot  milk,  also 
with  brown  sugar.  It  must  be  permissible  to  call 
for  a  second  serving  of  the  scrambled  eggs;  or, 
if  this  is  beyond  the  budget,  let  there  be  a  round 
of  judiciously  grilled  kidneys,  with  mayhap  a 
sprinkle  of  mushrooms,  grown  in  chalky  soil. 
That  is  the  kind  of  breakfast  they  used  to  serve 
in  Eden  before  the  fall  of  man  and  the  invention 
of  innkeepers  with  their  crass  formulae. 

After  such  a  breakfast,  if  one  may  descend  into 
a  garden  of  plain  turf,  mured  about  by  an  occlud- 
ing wall,  with  an  alley  of  lime  trees  for  sober 
pacing:  then  and  there  is  the  fit  time  and  place 
for  the  first  pipe  of  the  day.  Pack  your  mixture 
in  the  bowl;  press  it  lovingly  down  with  the 
cushion  of  the  thumb;  see  that  the  draught  is 
free — and  then  for  your  sticker hets  tdndstickor! 
A  day  so  begun  is  well  begun,  and  sin  will  flee 
your  precinct.  Shog,  vile  care!  The  smoke  is 
cool  and  blue  and  tasty  on  the  tongue;  the  arch 
of  the  palate  is  receptive  to  the  fume;  the  curling 


184  SHANDYGAFF 

vapour  ascends  the  chimneys  of  the  nose.  Fill 
your  cheeks  with  the  excellent  cloudy  reek,  blow 
it  forth  in  twists  and  twirls.  The  first  pipe! 

But,  as  I  was  saying,  joy  ends  not  here. 
Granted  that  the  after-breakfast  smoke  excels 
in  savour,  succeeding  fumations  grow  in  mental 
reaction.  The  first  pipe  is  animal,  physical,  a 
matter  of  pure  sensation.  With  later  kindlings  of 
the  weed  the  brain  quickens,  begins  to  throw  out 
tendrils  of  speculation,  leaps  to  welcome  problems 
for  thought,  burrows  tingling  into  the  unknow- 
able. As  the  smoke  drifts  and  shreds  about  your 
neb,  your  mind  is  surcharged  with  that  impon- 
derable energy  of  thought,  which  cannot  be  seen 
or  measured,  yet  is  the  most  potent  force  in 
existence.  All  the  hot  sunlight  of  Virginia  that 
stirred  the  growing  leaf  in  its  odorous  plantation 
now  crackles  in  that  glowing  dottel  in  your  briar 
bowl.  The  venomous  juices  of  the  stalk  seep 
down  the  stem.  The  most  precious  things  in  the 
world  are  also  vivid  with  poison. 

Was  Kant  a  smoker?  I  think  he  must  have 
been.  How  else  could  he  have  written  "  The  Criti- 
que of  Pure  Reason"  ?  Tobacco  is  the  handmaid  of 
science,  philosophy,  and  literature.  Carlyle  eased 
his  indigestion  and  snappish  temper  by  perpetual 
pipes.  The  generous  use  of  the  weed  makes  the 
enforced  retirement  of  Sing  Sing  less  irksome  to 


SHANDYGAFF  185 

forgers,  second-story  men,  and  fire  bugs.  Samuel 
Butler,  who  had  little  enough  truck  with  church- 
men, was  once  invited  to  stay  a  week-end  by  the 
Bishop  of  London.  Distrusting  the  entertaining 
qualities  of  bishops,  and  rightly,  his  first  impulse 
was  to  decline.  But  before  answering  the  Bishop's 
letter  he  passed  it  to  his  manservant  for  advice. 
The  latter  (the  immortal  Alfred  Emery  Cathie) 
said :  "  There  is  a  crumb  of  tobacco  in  the  fold  of 
the  paper,  sir:  I  think  you  may  safely  go."  He 
went,  and  hugely  enjoyed  himself. 

There  is  a  Bible  for  smokers,  a  book  of  delight- 
ful information  for  all  acolytes  of  this  genial  ritual, 
crammed  with  wit  and  wisdom  upon  the  art  and 
mystery  we  cherish.  It  is  called  "The  Social 
History  of  Smoking,"  by  G.  L.  Apperson.  Alas, 
a  friend  of  mine,  John  Marshall  (he  lives  some- 
where in  Montreal  or  Quebec),  borrowed  it  from 
me,  and  obstinately  declines  to  return  it.  If  he 
should  ever  see  this,  may  his  heart  be  loosened 
and  relent.  Dear  John,  I  wish  you  would  return 
that  book.  (Canadian  journals  please  copy !) 

I  was  contending  that  the  joy  of  smoking  in- 
creases harmonically  with  the  weight  of  tobacco 
consumed,  within  reasonable  limits.  Of  course 
the  incessant  smoker  who  is  puffing  all  day  long 
sears  his  tongue  and  grows  callous  to  the  true 


186  SHANDYGAFF 

delicacy  of  the  flavour.  For  that  reason  it  is  best 
not  to  smoke  during  office  hours.  This  may  be  a 
hard  saying  to  some,  but  a  proper  respect  for  the 
art  impels  it.  Not  even  the  highest  ecclesiast 
can  be  at  his  devotions  always.  It  is  not  those 
who  are  horny  with  genuflection  who  are  nearest 
the  Throne  of  Grace.  Even  the  Pope  ( I  speak  in 
all  reverence)  must  play  billiards  or  trip  a  coranto 
now  and  then! 

This  is  the  schedule  I  vouch  for: 

After  breakfast:  2  pipes 

At  luncheon:  2  pipes 

Before  dinner:  2  pipes 

Between  dinner  and  bed:  10  to  12  pipes 

(Cigars  and  cigarettes  as  occasion  may  require.) 

The  matter  of  smoking  after  dinner  requires  con- 
sideration. If  your  meal  is  a  heavy,  stupefying 
anodyne,  retracting  all  the  humane  energies  from 
the  skull  in  a  forced  abdominal  mobilization  to 
quell  a  plethora  of  food  into  subjection  and 
assimilation,  there  is  no  power  of  speculation  left 
in  the  top  storeys.  You  sink  brutishly  into  an 
armchair,  warm  your  legs  at  the  fire,  and  let  the 
leucocytes  and  phagocytes  fight  it  out.  At  such 
times  smoking  becomes  purely  mechanical.  You 
imbibe  and  exhale  the  fumes  automatically.  The 
choicest  aromatic  blends  are  mere  fuel.  Your 


SHANDYGAFF  187 

eyes  see,  but  your  brain  responds  not.  The 
vital  juices,  generous  currents,  or  whatever  they 
are  that  animate  the  intelligence,  are  down  below 
hatches  fighting  furiously  to  annex  and  drill  into 
submission  the  alien  and  distracting  mass  of  food 
that  you  have  taken  on  board.  They  are  like 
stevedores,  stowing  the  cargo  for  portability. 
A  little  later,  however,  when  this  excellent 
work  is  accomplished,  the  bosun  may  trill  his 
whistle,  and  the  deck  hands  can  be  summoned 
back  to  the  navigating  bridge.  The  mind  casts 
off  its  corporeal  hawsers  and  puts  out  to  sea.  You 
begin  once  more  to  live  as  a  rational  composition 
of  reason,  emotion,  and  will.  The  heavy  dinner 
postpones  and  stultifies  this  desirable  state.  Let 
it  then  be  said  that  light  dining  is  best:  a  little 
fish  or  cutlets,  white  wine,  macaroni  and  cheese, 
ice  cream  and  coffee.  Such  a  regime  restores  the 
animal  health,  and  puts  you  in  vein  for  a  con- 
tinuance of  intellect. 

Smoking  is  properly  an  intellectual  exercise. 
It  calls  forth  the  choicest  qualities  of  mind  and 
soul.  It  can  only  be  properly  conducted  by  a 
being  in  full  possession  of  the  five  wits.  For 
those  who  are  in  pain,  sorrow,  or  grievous  per- 
plexity it  operates  as  a  sovereign  consoler,  a  balm 
and  balsam  to  the  harassed  spirit;  it  calms  the 
fretful,  makes  jovial  the  peevish.  Better  than 


188  SHANDYGAFF 

any  ginseng  in  the  herbal,  does  it  combat  fatigue 
and  old  age.  Well  did  Stevenson  exhort  virgins  not 
to  marry  men  who  do  not  smoke. 

Now  we  approach  the  crux  and  pinnacle  of  this 
inquirendo  into  the  art  and  mystery  of  smoking. 
That  is  to  say,  the  last  pipe  of  all  before  the  so- 
long  indomitable  intellect  abdicates,  and  the  body 
succumbs  to  weariness. 

No  man  of  my  acquaintance  has  ever  given  me 
a  satisfactory  definition  of  living.  An  alternating 
systole  and  diastole,  says  physiology.  Chlor- 
ophyl  becoming  xanthophyl,  says  botany.  These 
stir  me  not.  I  define  life  as  a  process  of  the  Will- 
to-Smoke:  recurring  periods  of  consciousness  in 
which  the  enjoyability  of  smoking  is  manifest,  in- 
terrupted by  intervals  of  recuperation. 

Now  if  I  represent  the  course  of  this  process  by 
a  graph  (the  co-ordinates  being  Time  and  the 
Sense-of-by-the-Smoker-enjoyed-Satisf action)  the 
curve  ascends  from  its  origin  in  a  steep  slant, 
then  drops  away  abruptly  at  the  recuperation  in- 
terval. This  is  merely  a  teutonic  and  pedantic 
mode  of  saying  that  the  best  pipe  of  all  is  the  last 
one  smoked  at  night.  It  is  the  penultimate  mo- 
ment that  is  always  the  happiest.  The  sweetest 
pipe  ever  enjoyed  by  the  skipper  of  the  Hesperus 
was  the  one  he  whiffed  just  before  he  was  tirpitzed 
by  the  poet  on  that  angry  reef. 


SHANDYGAFF  189 

The  best  smoking  I  ever  do  is  about  half  past 
midnight,  just  before  "my  eyelids  drop  their 
shade,"  to  remind  you  again  of  your  primary 
school  poets.  After  the  toils,  rebuffs,  and  exhila- 
rations of  the  day,  after  piaffing  busily  on  the 
lethal  typewriter  or  schreibmaschine  for  some 
hours,  a  drowsy  languor  begins  to  numb  the 
sense.  In  dressing  gown  and  slippers  I  seek  my 
couch;  Ho,  Lucius,  a  taper!  and  some  solid,  invig- 
orating book  for  consideration.  My  favourite  is 
the  General  Catalogue  of  the  Oxford  University 
Press :  a  work  so  excellently  full  of  learning;  printed 
and  bound  with  such  eminence  of  skill;  so  noble  a 
repository  or  Thesaurus  of  the  accumulated 
treasures  of  human  learning,  that  it  sets  the 
mind  in  a  glow  of  wonder.  This  is  the  choicest 
garland  for  the  brain  fatigued  with  the  insigni- 
ficant and  trifling  tricks  by  which  we  earn  our 
daily  bread.  There  is  no  recreation  so  lovely  as 
that  afforded  by  books  rich  in  wisdom  and  ribbed 
with  ripe  and  sober  research.  This  catalogue 
(nearly  600  pages)  is. a  marvellous  precis  of  the 
works  of  the  human  spirit.  And  here  and  there, 
buried  in  a  scholarly  paragraph,  one  meets  a 
topical  echo :  "  THE  OXFORD  SHAKESPEARE  GLOS- 
SARY: by  C.  T.  ONIONS:  Mr.  Onions'  glossary, 
offered  at  an  insignificant  price,  relieves  English 
scholarship  of  the  necessity  of  recourse  to  the  lexi- 


190  SHANDYGAFF 

con  of  Schmidt."  Lo,  how  do  even  professors 
and  privat-docents  belabour  one  another! 

With  due  care  I  fill,  pack,  and  light  the  last  pipe 
of  the  day,  to  be  smoked  reverently  and  solemnly 
in  bed.  The  thousand  brain-murdering  inter- 
ruptions are  over.  The  gentle  sibilance  of  air 
drawn  through  the  glowing  nest  of  tobacco  is  the 
only  sound.  With  reposeful  heart  I  turn  to  some 
favourite  entry  in  my  well-loved  catalogue. 

"HENRY  PEACHAM'S  COMPLEAT  GENTLEMAN. 
Fashioning  him  absolut  in  the  most  necessary 
and  Commendable  Qualities  concerning  Miiide, 
or  Body,  that  may  be  required  in  a  Noble  Gentle- 
man. Wherunto  is  annexed  a  Description  of 
the  order  of  a  Maine  Battaile  or  Pitched  Field, 
eight  severall  wayes,  with  the  Art  of  Limming  and 
other  Additions  newly  Enlarged.  Printed  from 
the  edition  of  1634;  first  edition,  1622,  with  an 
introduction  by  G.  S.  Gordon.  1906.  Pp  xxiv 
-f  16  unpaged  -f  262.  7s.  6d.  net.  At  the  Clarendon 
Press." 

Or  this: 

"  H.  His  DEVISES,  for  his  owne  exercise,  and  his 
Friends  pleasure.  Printed  from  the  edition  of 
1581,  with  an  introduction.  1906.  Pp  xviii 
+  104*  5s.  net." 

O  excellent  H!  Little  did  he  dream  that  his 
devises  (with  an  introduction  by  Professor  Sir 


SHANDYGAFF  191 

Walter  Raleigh)  would  be  still  giving  his  Friends 
pleasure  over  three  hundred  years  later.  The 
compiler  of  the  catalogue  says  here  with  modest 
and  pardonable  pride  "strongly  bound  in  excep- 
tionally tough  paper  and  more  than  once  described 
by  reviewers  as  leather.  Some  of  the  books  are 
here  printed  for  the  first  time,  the  rest  are  repro- 
ductions of  the  original  editions,  many  having 
prefaces  by  good  hands." 

One  o'clock  is  about  to  chime  in  the  near-by 
steeple,  but  my  pipe  and  curiosity  are  now  both 
going  strong. 

"THE  CURES  OF  THE  DISEASED  in  remote 
Regions,  preventing  Mortalitie  incident  in  For- 
raine  Attempts  of  the  English  Nation.  1598. 
The  earliest  English  treatise  on  tropical  diseases. 
1915.  Is.  6d.  net." 

Is  that  not  the  most  interesting  comment  on 
the  English  colonial  enterprises  in  Elizabeth's 
reign?  And  there  is  no  limit  to  the  joys  of  this 
marvellous  catalogue.  How  one  dreams  of  the 
unknown  delights  of  "Two  Fifteenth-Century 
Cookery  Books,"  or  "Dan  Michel's  Ayenbite  of 
Inwyt,  1340"  (which  means,  as  I  figure  it,  the 
"Backbite  of  Conscience"),  or  "Origenis  Hex- 
aplorum  quae  supersunt  sive  Veterum  Interpre- 
tum  Graecorum  in  totum  Vetus  Testamentum 
Fragment  a,  edidit  F.  Field.  1865.  Two  volumes 


192  SHANDYGAFF 

£6  6s.  net"  or  "Shuckford's  Sacred  and  Profane 
History  of  the  World,  from  the  Creation  of  the 
World  to  the  Dissolution  of  the  Assyrian  Empire 
at  the  death  of  Sardanapalus,  and  to  the  Declen- 
sion of  The  Kingdom  of  Judah  and  Israel  under  the 
Reigns  of  Ahaz  and  Pekah,  with  the  Creation 
and  Fall  of  Man.  1728,  reprinted  1848.  Pp  550. 
10s.  net." 

But  I  dare  not  force  my  hobbies  on  you  further. 
One  man's  meat  is  another's  caviar.  I  dare  not 
even  tell  you  what  my  favourite  tobaccos  are,  for 
recently  when  I  sold  to  a  magazine  a  very  worthy 
and  excellent  poem  entitled  "My  Pipe,"  mention- 
ing the  brands  I  delight  to  honour,  the  editor  made 
me  substitute  fictitious  names  for  my  dearly  loved 
blends.  He  said  that  sound  editorial  policy  for- 
bids mentioning  commercial  products  in  the  text 
of  the  magazine. 

But  tobacco,  thank  heaven,  is  not  merely  a 
"commercial  product."  Let  us  call  on  Salvation 
Yeo  for  his  immortal  testimony: 

"When  all  things  were  made  none  was  made 
better  than  this;  to  be  a  lone  man's  companion,  a 
bachelor's  friend,  a  hungry  man's  food,  a  sad  man's 
cordial,  a  wakeful  man's  sleep,  and  a  chilly  man's 
fire,  sir;  while  for  stanching  of  wounds,  purging  of 
rheum,  and  settling  of  the  stomach,  there's  no 
herb  like  unto  it  under  the  canopy  of  heaven." 


SHANDYGAFF  193 

And  by  this  time  the  bowl  is  naught  but  ash. 
Even  my  dear  General  Catalogue  begins  to  blur 
before  me.  Slip  it  under  the  pillow;  gently  and 
kindly  lay  the  pipe  in  the  candlestick,  and  blow 
out  the  flame.  The  window  is  open  wide:  the 
night  rushes  in.  I  see  a  glimpse  of  stars  .  .  . 
a  distant  chime  .  .  .  and  fall  asleep  with 
the  faint  pungence  of  the  Indian  herb  about  me. 


TIME  TO  LIGHT  THE  FURNACE 

THE  twenty-eighth  of  October.  Coal 
nine  dollars  a  ton.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Black- 
well  had  made  a  resolution  not  to  start 
the  furnace  until  Thanksgiving.  And  in  the 
biting  winds  of  Long  Island  that  requires  courage. 

Commuters  the  world  over  are  a  hardy,  valor- 
ous race.  The  Arab  commutes  by  dromedary, 
the  Malay  by  raft,  the  Indian  rajah  by  elephant, 
the  African  chief  gets  a  team  of  his  mothers-in- 
law  to  tow  him  to  the  office.  But  wherever  you 
find  him,  the  commuter  is  a  tough  and  tempered 
soul,  inured  to  privation  and  calamity.  At 
seven-thirty  in  the  morning  he  leaves  his  bunga- 
low, tent,  hut,  palace,  or  kraal,  and  tells  his  wife 
he  is  going  to  work. 

How  the  winds  whistle  and  moan*  over  those 
Long  Island  flats!  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blackwell  had 
laid  in  fifteen  tons  of  black  diamonds.  And 
hoping  that  would  be  enough,  they  were  zealous 
not  to  start  the  furnace  until  the  last  touchdown 
had  been  made. 

But  every  problem  has  more  than  one  aspect. 
Belinda,  the  new  cook,  had  begun  to  work  for 

194 


SHANDYGAFF  195 

them  on  the  fifth  of  October.  Belinda  came 
from  the  West  Indies,  a  brown  maiden  still  un- 
spoiled by  the  sophistries  of  the  employment 
agencies.  She  could  boil  an  egg  without  crack- 
ing it,  she  could  open  a  tin  can  without  maiming 
herself.  She  was  neat,  guileless,  and  cheerful. 
But,  she  was  accustomed  to  a  warm  climate. 

The  twenty-eighth  of  October.  As  Mr.  and 
Mrs/  Blackwell  sat  at  dinner,  Mr.  Blackwell 
buttoned  his  coat,  and  began  a  remark  about  how 
chilly  the  evenings  were  growing.  But  across  the 
table  came  one  of  those  glances  familiar  to  indis- 
creet husbands.  Passion  distorted,  vibrant  with 
rebuke,  charged  with  the  lightning  of  instant 
dissolution,  Mrs.  Blackwell's  gaze  struck  him 
dumb  with  alarm.  Husbands,  husbands,  you 
know  that  gaze ! 

Mr.  Blackwell  kept  silence.  He  ate  heartily, 
choosing  foods  rich  in  calories.  He  talked  of  other 
matters,  and  accepted  thankfully  what  Belinda 
brought  to  him.  But  he  was  chilly,  and  a  vision 
of  coal  bills  danced  in  his  mind. 

After  dinner  he  lit  the  open  fire  in  the  living 
room,  and  he  and  Mrs.  Blackwell  talked  in  dis- 
creet tones.  Belinda  was  merrily  engaged  in  wash- 
ing the  dishes. 

"Bob,  you  consummate  <  blockhead!"  said  Mrs. 


196  SHANDYGAFF 

Blackwell,  "haven't  you  better  sense  than  to 
talk  about  its  being  chilly?  These  last  few  days 
Belinda  has  done  nothing  but  complain  about  the 
cold.  She  comes  from  Barbados,  where  the  ther- 
mometer never  goes  below  sixty.  She  said  she 
couldn't  sleep  last  night,  her  room  was  so  cold. 
I've  given  her  my  old  fur  coat  and  the  steamer 
rug  from  your  den.  One  other  remark  like  that 
of  yours  and  she'll  leave.  For  heaven's  sake, 
Bob,  use  your  skull!" 

Mr.  Blackwell  gazed  at  her  in  concern.  The 
deep,  calculating  wisdom  of  women  was  made 
plain  to  him.  He  ventured  no  reply. 

Mrs.  Blackwell  was  somewhat  softened  by  his 
docility. 

"You  don't  realize,  dear,"  she  added,  "how 
servants  are  affected  by  chance  remarks  they 
overhear.  The  other  day  you  mentioned  the 
thermometer,  and  the  next  morning  I  found 
Belinda  looking  at  it.  If  you  must  say  anything 
about  the  temperature,  complain  of  the  heat. 
Otherwise  we'll  have  to  start  the  furnace  at 


once." 


Mr.  Blackwell 's  face  was  full  of  the  admira- 
tion common  to  the  simple-minded  race  of  hus- 
bands. 

"Jumbo,"  he  said,  "you're  right.  I  was 
crazy.  Watch  me  from  now  on.  Mental  sug- 


SHANDYGAFF  197 

gestion  is  the  dope.  The  power  of  the  chance 
remark!" 

The  next  evening  at  dinner,  while  Belinda  was 
passing  the  soup,  Mr.  Black  well  fired  his  first  gun. 
"It  seems  almost  too  warm  for  hot  soup,"  he 
said.  "All  the  men  at  the  office  were  talking 
about  the  unseasonable  hot  weather.  I  think 
we'd  better  have  a  window  open."  To  Mrs. 
Blackwell's  dismay,  he  raised  one  of  the  dining- 
room  windows,  admitting  a  pungent  frostiness 
of  October  evening.  But  she  was  game,  and 
presently  called  for  a  palm-leaf  fan.  When 
Belinda  was  in  the  room  they  talked  pointedly  of 
the  heat,  and  Mr.  Blackwell  quoted  imaginary 
Weather  Bureau  notes  from  the  evening  paper. 

After  dinner,  as  he  was  about  to  light  the  log 
fire,  from  force  of  habit,  Mrs.  Blackwell  snatched 
the  burning  match  from  him  just  as  he  was  set- 
ting it  to  the  kindling.  They  grinned  at  each 
other  wistfully,  for  the  ruddy  evening  blaze  was 
their  chief  delight.  Mr.  Blackwell  manfully  took 
off  his  coat  and  waistcoat  and  sat  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves until  Belinda  had  gone  to  bed.  Then 
he  grew  reckless  and  lit  a  roaring  fire,  by  which 
they  huddled  in  glee.  He  rebuilt  the  fire  before 
retiring,  so  that  Belinda  might  suspect  nothing 
in  the  morning. 

The  next  evening  Mr.  Blackwell  appeared  at 


198  SHANDYGAFF 

dinner  in  a  Palm  Beach  suit.  Mrs.  Blackwell 
countered  by  ordering  iced  tea.  They  both 
sneezed  vigorously  during  the  meal.  "It  was  so 
warm  in  town  to-day,  I  think  I  caught  a  cold," 
said  Mr.  Blackwell. 

Later  Mrs.  Blackwell  found  Belinda  examin- 
ing the  thermometer  with  a  puzzled  air.  That 
night  they  took  it  down  and  hid  it  in  the  attic. 
But  the  great  stroke  of  the  day  was  revealed  when 
Mrs.  Blackwell  explained  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Chester,  next  door,  had  promised  to  carry  on  a 
similar  psychological  campaign.  Belinda  and 
Mrs.  Chester's  cook,  Tulip — jocularly  known  as 
the  Black  Tulip — were  friends,  and  would  undoubt- 
edly compare  notes.  Mrs.  Chester  had  agreed 
not  to  start  her  furnace  without  consultation  with 
Mrs.  Blackwell. 

October  yielded  to  November.  By  good  for- 
tune the  weather  remained  sunny,  but  the  nights 
were  crisp.  Belinda  was  given  an  oil-stove  for 
her  attic  bedroom.  Mrs.  Blackwell  heard  no 
more  complaints  of  the  cold,  but  sometimes  she 
and  her  husband  could  hear  uneasy  creakings 
upstairs  late  at  night.  "I  wonder  if  Barbados 
really  is  so  warm?"  she  asked  Bob.  "I'm  sure 
it  can't  be  warmer  than  Belinda's  room.  She 
never  opens  the  windows,  and  the  oil-stove  has 
to  be  filled  every  morning." 


SHANDYGAFF  '  199 

• 

"Perhaps  some  day  we  can  get  an  Eskimo  maid," 
suggested  Mr.  Blackwell  drowsily.  He  wore 
his  Palm  Beach  suit  every  night  for  dinner,  but 
underneath  it  he  was  panoplied  in  heavy  flannels. 

Through  Mr.  Chester  the  rumour  of  the  Black- 
wells'  experiment  in  psychology  spread  far  among 
suburban  husbands.  On  the  morning  train  less 
fortunate  commuters,  who  had  already  started 
their  fires,  referred  to  him  as  "the  little  brother 
of  the  iceberg."  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chester  came  to 
dinner  on  the  16th  of  November.  Both  the  men 
loudly  clamoured  for  permission  to  remove  their 
coats,  and  sat  with  blanched  and  chattering 
jaws.  Mr.  Blackwell  made  a  feeble  pretence  at 
mopping  his  brow,  but  when  the  dessert  proved 
to  be  ice-cream  his  nerve  forsook  him.  "N-no, 
Belinda,"  he  said.  "It's  too  warm  for  ice-cream 
to-night.  I  don't  w — want  to  get  chilled.  Bring 
me  some  hot  coffee."  As  she  brought  his  cup  he 
noticed  that  her  honest  brown  brow  was  beaded 
with  perspiration.  "By  George,"  he  thought, 
"this  mental  suggestion  business  certainly  works." 
Late  that  evening  he  lit  the  log  fire  and  revelled 
by  the  blaze  in  an  ulster. 

The  next  evening  when  Mr.  Blackwell  came 
home  from  business  he  met  the  doctor  in  the  hall. 

"Hello,  doc,"  he  said,  "what's  up?" 


200  SHANDYGAFF 

"Mrs.  Blackwell  called  me  in  to  see  your 
maid,"  said  the  doctor.  "It's  the  queerest  thing 
I've  met  in  twenty  years'  practice.  Here  it  is 
the  17th  of  November,  and  cold  enough  for  snow. 
That  girl  has  all  the  symptoms  of  sunstroke  and 
prickly  heat." 


MY  FRIEND 

TO-DAY    we    called    each   other  by   our 
given  names  for  the  first  time. 
Making  a  new  friend  is  so  exhilarating 
an  adventure  that  perhaps  it  will  not  be  out  of 
place  if  I  tell  you  a  little  about  him.     There  are 
not  many  of  his  kind. 

In  the  first  place,  he  is  stout,  like  myself.  We 
are  both  agreed  that  many  of  the  defects  of 
American  letters  to-day  are  due  to  the  sorry 
leanness  of  our  writing  men.  We  have  no  Ches- 
tertons,  no  Bellocs.  I  look  to  Don  Marquis,  to 
H.  L.  Mencken,  to  Heywood  Broun,  to  Clayton 
Hamilton,  and  to  my  friend  here  portraited,  to 
remedy  this.  If  only  Mr.  Simeon  Strunsky  were 
stouter!  He  is  plump,  but  not  yet  properly  cor- 
pulent. 

My  friend  is  a  literary  journalist.  There  are 
but  few  of  them  in  these  parts.  Force  of  circum- 
stances may  compel  him  to  write  of  trivial  things, 
but  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  not  to  write 
with  beauty  and  distinction  far  above  his  theme. 
His  style  is  a  perfect  echo  of  his  person,  mellow, 
quaint,  and  richly  original.  To  plunder  a  phrase  of 

i  201 


202  SHANDYGAFF 

his  own,  it  is  drenched  with  the  sounds,  the  scents, 
the  colours,  of  great  literature. 

I,  too,  am  employed  in  a  bypath  of  the  publish- 
ing business,  and  try  to  bring  to  my  tasks  some 
small  measure  of  honest  idealism.  But  what  I 
love  (I  use  this  great  word  with  care)  in  my  friend 
is  that  his  zeal  for  beauty  and  for  truth  is  great 
enough  to  outweigh  utterly  the  paltry  considera- 
tions of  expediency  and  comfort  which  sway  most 
of  us.  To  him  his  pen  is  as  sacred  as  the  scalpel  to 
the  surgeon.  He  would  rather  die  than  dishonour 
that  chosen  instrument. 

I  hope  I  am  not  merely  fanciful:  but  the  case 
of  my  friend  has  taken  in  my  mind  a  large  import- 
ance quite  beyond  the  exigencies  of  his  personal 
situation.  I  see  in  him  personified  the  rising 
generation  of  literary  critics,  who  have  a  hard 
row  to  hoe  in  a  deliterated  democracy.  By  some 
unknowable  miracle  of  birth  or  training  he  has 
come  by  a  love  of  beauty,  a  reverence  for  what  is 
fine  and  true,  an  absolute  intolerance  of  the  slip- 
shod and  insincere. 

Such  a  man  is  not  happy,  can  never  be  happy, 
when  the  course  of  his  daily  routine  wishes  him 
to  praise  what  he  does  not  admire,  to  exploit  what 
he  does  not  respect.  The  most  of  us  have  some 
way  of  quibbling  ourselves  out  of  this  dilemma. 
But  he  cannot  do  so,  because  more  than  comfort, 


SHANDYGAFF  203 

more  than  clothes  and  shoe  leather,  more  than 
wife  or  fireside,  he  must  preserve  the  critic's 
self-respect.  "I  cannot  write  a  publicity  story 
about  A.  B,"  he  said  woefully  to  me,  "because 
I  am  convinced  he  is  a  bogus  philosopher.  I  am 
not  interested  in  selling  books :  what  I  have  to  do 
with  is  that  strange  and  esoteric  thing  called 
literature."* 

I  would  be  sorry  to  have  it  thought  that  be- 
cause of  this  devotion  to  high  things  my  friend  is 
stubborn,  dogmatic,  or  hard  to  work  with.  He 
is  unpractical  as  dogs,  children,  or  Dr.  Johnson; 
in  absent-minded  simplicity  he  has  issued  forth 
upon  the  highway  only  half-clad,  and  been  haled 
back  to  his  boudoir  by  indignant  bluecoats; 
but  in  all  matters  where  absolute  devotion  to  truth 
and  honour  are  concerned  I  would  not  find  him 
lacking.  Wherever  a  love  of  beauty  and  a  rip- 
ened judgment  of  men  and  books  are  a  business 
asset,  he  is  a  successful  business  man. 

In  person,  he  has  the  charm  of  a  monstrously 
overgrown  elf.  His  shyly  wandering  gaze  behind 
thick  spectacle  panes,  his  incessant  devotion  to 
cigarettes  and  domestic  lager,  his  whimsical  talk 
on  topics  that  confound  the  unlettered — these 
are  amiable  trifles  that  endear  him  to  those  who 
understand. 

Actually,   in   a  hemisphere  bestridden  by  the 


204  SHANDYGAFF 

crass  worship  of  comfort  and  ease,  here  is  a  man 
whose  ideal  is  to  write  essays  in  resounding  Eng- 
lish, and  to  spread  a  little  wider  his  love  of  the 
niceties  of  fine  prose. 

I  have  anatomized  him  but  crudely.  If  you 
want  to  catch  him  in  a  weak  spot,  try  him  on 
Belloc.  Hear  him  rumble  his  favourite  couplet; 

% 
And  the  men  who  were  boys  when  I  was  a  boy 

Shall  sit  and  drink  with  me. 
Indeed  let  us  hope  that  they  will. 


A  POET  OF  SAD  VIGILS 

THERE  are  many  ways  of  sitting  down  to 
an    evening    vigil.     Unquestionably    the 
pleasantest  is  to  fortify  the  soul  with  a 
pot  of  tea,  plenty  of  tobacco,  and  a  few  chapters 
of  Jane  Austen.     And  if  the  adorable  Miss  Austen 
is  not  to  hand,  my  second  choice  perhaps  would 
be    the    literary    remains    of    a    sad,   poor,    and 
forgotten  young  man  who  was  a  contemporary  of 
hers. 

I  say  "forgotten,"  and  I  think  it  is  just;  save 
for  his  beautiful  hymn  4CThe  Star  of  Bethlehem," 
who  nowadays  ever  hears  of  Henry  Kirke  White? 
But  on  the  drawing-room  tables  of  our  grand- 
mothers' girlhood  the  plump  volume,  edited  with 
a  fulsome  memoir  by  Southey,  held  honourable 
place  near  the  conch  shell  from  the  Pacific  and 
the  souvenirs  of  the  Crystal  Palace.  Mr.  Southey, 
in  his  thirty  years'  laureateship,  made  the  fame  of 
several  young  versifiers,  and  deemed  that  in  intro- 
ducing poor  White's  remains  to  the  polite  world 
he  was  laying  the  first  lucifer  to  a  bonfire  that 
would  gloriously  crackle  for  posterity.  No  less 
than  Chatterton  was  the  worthy  laureate's  esti- 

205 


206  SHANDYGAFF 

mate  of  his  young  foundling;  but  alas!  Chatterton 
and  Kirke  White  both  seem  thinnish  gruel  to  us; 
and  even  Southey  himself  is  down  among  the  pinch 
hitters.  Literary  prognosis  is  a  parlous  sport. 

The  generation  that  gave  us  Wordsworth, 
Scott,  Coleridge^  Lamb,  Jane  Austen,  Hazlitt, 
De  Quincey,  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats,  leaves  us 
little  time  for  Kirke  White  considered  purely  as  a 
literary  man.  His  verses  are  grotesquely  stilted, 
the  obvious  conjunction  of  biliousness  and  over- 
study,  and  adapted  to  the  taste  of  an  era  when 
the  word  female  was  still  used  as  a  substantive. 
But  they  are  highly  entertaining  to  read  because 
they  so  faithfully  mirror  the  backwash  of  roman- 
ticism. They  are  so  thoroughly  unhealthy,  so 
morbid,  so  pallid  with  moonlight,  so  indentured 
by  the  ayenbite  of  inwit,  that  it  is  hard  to  believe 
that  Henry's  father  was  a  butcher  and  should  pre- 
sumably have  reared  him  on  plenty  of  sound  beef- 
steak and  blood  gravy.  If  only  Miss  Julia  Lath- 
rop  or  Dr.  Anna  Howard  Shaw  could  have  been 
Henry's  mother,  he  might  have  lived  to  write 
poems  on  the  abolition  of  slavery  in  America. 
But  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  done  to  death  by 
the  brutal  tutors  of  St.  John's  College,  Cam- 
bridge, and  perished  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  in 
1806.  As  a  poet,  let  him  pass;  but  the  story  of 
his  life  breathes  a  sweet  and  honourable  fragrance, 


SHANDYGAFF  207 

and  is  comely  to  ponder  in  the  midnight  hours. 
As  Southey  said,  there  is  nothing  to  be  recorded 
but  what  is  honourable  to  him;  nothing  to  be 
regretted  but  that  one  so  ripe  for  heaven  should  so 
soon  have  been  removed  from  the  world. 

He  was  born  in  Nottingham,  March  21,  1785, 
of  honest  tradesman  parents;  his  origin  reminds 
one  inevitably  of  that  of  Keats.  From  his  earliest 
years  he  was  studious  in  temper,  and  could  with 
difficulty  be  drawn  from  his  books,  even  at  meal- 
times. At  the  age  of  seven  he  wrote  a  story  of  a 
Swiss  emigrant  and  gave  it  to  the  servant,  being 
too  bashful  to  show  it  to  his  mother.  Southey 's 
comment  on  this  is  "The  consciousness  of  genius 
is  always  accompanied  with  this  diffidence;  it  is  a 
sacred,  solitary  feeling." 

His  schooling  was  not  long;  and  while  it  lasted 
part  of  Henry's  time  was  employed  in  carrying  his 
father's  deliveries  of  chops  and  rumps  to  the  pros- 
perous of  Nottingham.  At  fourteen  his  parents 
made  an  effort  to  start  him  in  line  for  business 
by  placing  him  in  a  stocking  factory.  The  work 
was  wholly  uncongenial,  and  shortly  afterward 
he  was  employed  in  the  office  of  a  busy  firm  of 
lawyers.  He  spent  twelve  hours  a  day  in  the  office 
and  then  an  hour  more  in  the  evening  was  put  upon 
Latin  and  Greek.  Even  such  recreation  hours  as 
the  miserable  youth  found  were  dismally  employed 


208  SHANDYGAFF 

in  declining  nouns  and  conjugating  verbs.  In  a 
little  garret  at  the  top  of  the  house  he  began  to 
collect  his  books;  even  his  supper  of  bread  and 
milk  was  carried  up  to  him  there,  for  he  refused 
to  eat  with  his  family  for  fear  of  interrupting  his 
studies.  It  is  a  deplorable  picture:  the  fumes  of 
the  hearty  butcher's  evening  meal  ascend  the  stair 
in  vain,  Henry  is  reading  "Blackstone"  and  "The 
Wealth  of  Nations."  If  it  were  Udolpho  or  Con  an 
Doyle  that  held  him,  there  were  some  excuse. 
The  sad  life  of  Henry  is  the  truest  indictment  of 
overstudy  that  I  know.  No  one,  after  reading 
Southey's  memoir,  will  overload  his  brain  again. 

At  the  age  of  fifteen  we  find  the  boy  writing  to 
his  older  brother  Neville:  "I  have  made  a  firm 
resolution  never  to  spend  above  one  hour  at  this 
amusement  [novel  reading],  I  have  been  obliged 
to  enter  into  this  resolution  in  consequence  of  a 
vitiated  taste  acquired  by  reading  romances." 
He  is  human  enough  to  add,  however,  that  "after 
long  and  fatiguing  researches  in  *  Blackstone' 
or  'Coke,'  'Tom  Jones'  or  'Robinson  Crusoe* 
afford  a  pleasing  and  necessary  relaxation.  Of 
'Robinson  Crusoe'  I  shall  observe  that  it  is 
allowed  to  be  the  best  novel  for  youth  in  the 
English  language." 

The  older  brother  to  whom  these  comments 
were  addressed  was  living  in  London,  apparently  a 


SHANDYGAFF  209 

fairly  successful  man  of  business.  Henry  per- 
mitted himself  to  indulge  his  pedagogical  and 
ministerial  instincts  for  the  benefit  and  improve- 
ment of  his  kinsman.  They  seem  to  have  carried 
on  a  mutual  recrimination  in  their  letters: 
Neville  was  inclined  to  belittle  the  divine  calling 
of  poets  in  their  teens;  while  Henry  deplored  his 
brother's  unwillingness  to  write  at  length  and 
upon  serious  and  "instructive"  topics.  Alas,  the 
ill-starred  young  man  had  a  mania  for  self -improve- 
ment. If  our  great-grandparents  were  all  like  that 
what  an  age  it  had  been  for  the  Scranton  corres- 
pondence courses!  "What  is  requisite  to  make 
one's  correspondence  valuable?"  asks  Henry.  "I 
answer,  sound  sense."  (The  italics  are  his  own.) 
"You  have  better  natural  abilities  than  many 
youth,"  he  tells  his  light-hearted  brother,  "but 
it  is  with  regret  I  see  that  you  will  not  give  your- 
self the  trouble  of  writing  a  good  letter.  My 
friend,  you  never  found  any  art,  however  trivial, 
that  did  not  require  some  application  at  first." 
He  begs  the  astounded  Neville  to  fill  his  letters 
with  his  opinions  of  the  books  he  reads.  "You 
have  no  idea  how  beneficial  this  would  be  to 
yourself."  Does  one  not  know  immediately  that 
Henry  is  destined  to  an  early  grave? 

Henry's  native  sweetness  was  further  impaired 
by  a  number  of  prizes  won  in  magazine  compe- 


210  SHANDYGAFF 

titions.  A  silver  medal  and  a  pair  of  twelve-inch 
globes  shortly  became  his  for  meritorious  con- 
tributions to  the  Monthly  Mirror.  He  was  also 
admitted  a  member  of  a  famous  literary  society 
then  existing  in  Nottingham,  and  although  the 
youngest  of  the  sodality  he  promptly  announced 
that  he  proposed  to  deliver  them  a  lecture.  With 
mingled  curiosity  and  dismay  the  gathering 
assembled  at  the  appointed  time,  and  the  in- 
spired youth  harangued  them  for  two  hours  on 
the  subject  of  Genius.  The  devil,  or  his  agent 
in  Nottingham,  had  marked  Henry  for  de- 
struction. 

In  such  a  career  there  can  be  no  doubt  as  to 
the  next  step.  He  published  a  book  of  poems. 
His  verses,  dealing  with  such  topics  as  Consump- 
tion, Despair,  Lullaby  of  a  Female  Convict  to  Her 
Child  the  Night  Previous  to  Execution,  Lines 
Spoken  by  a  Lover  at  the  Grave  of  His  Mistress, 
The  Eve  of  Death,  and  Sonnet  Addressed  by  a 
Female  Lunatic  to  a  Lady,  had  been  warmly  wel- 
comed by  the  politest  magazines  of  the  time. 
To  wish  to  publish  them  in  more  permanent 
form  was  natural;  but  the  unfortunate  young 
man  conceived  the  thought  that  the  venture 
might  even  be  a  profitable  one.  He  had  found 
himself  troubled  with  deafness,  which  threatened 
to  annul  his  industry  in  the  law;  moreover,  his 


SHANDYGAFF 

spirit  was  canting  seriously  toward  devotional 
matters,  and  thoughts  of  a  college  career  and  then 
the  church  were  lively  in  his  mind. 

The* winter  of  1802-3  was  busily  passed  in  pre- 
paring his  manuscript  for  the  printer.  Probably 
never  before  or  since,  until  the  Rev.  John  Frank- 
lin Bair  of  Greensburg,  Pennsylvania,  set  about 
garnering  his  collected  works  into  that  volume 
which  is  the  delight  of  the  wicked,  has  a  human 
heart  mulled  over  indifferent  verses  with  so 
honest  a  pleasure  and  such  unabated  certainty 
of  immortality.  The  first  two  details  to  be  at- 
tended to  were  the  printing  of  what  were  modestly 
termed  Proposals — i.  e.,  advertisements  of  the 
projected  volume,  calling  for  pledges  of  sub- 
scription— and,  still  more  important,  securing 
the  permission  of  some  prominent  person  to 
accept  a  dedication  of  the  book.  The  jolly  old 
days  of  literary  patronage  were  then  in  the  sere 
and  saffron,  but  it  was  still  esteemed  an  aid  to  the 
sale  of  a  volume  if  it  might  be  dedicated  to  some 
marquis  of  Carabas.  Accordingly  the  manu- 
script was  despatched  to  London,  and  Neville, 
the  philistine  brother,  was  called  upon  to  leave  it 
at  the  residence  of  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire. 
A  very  humble  letter  from  honest  Henry  accom- 
panied it,  begging  leave  of  her  Grace  to  dedicate 
his  "trifling  effusions"  to  her. 


SHANDYGAFF 

Henry's  letters  to  Neville  while  his  book  was 
in  preparation  are  very  entertaining,  as  those  of 
minor  poets  always  are  under  such  circumstan- 
ces. Henry  was  convinced  that  at  least  350  copies 
would  be  sold  in  Nottingham.  He  writes  in 
exultation  that  he  has  already  got  twenty-three 
orders  even  before  his  "proposals"  are  ready: 

"I  have  got  twenty-three,  without  making  the 
affair  public  at  all,  among  my  immediate  acquain- 
tance: and  mind,  I  neither  solicit  nor  draw  the 
conversation  tok  the  subject,  but  a  rumour  has 
got  abroad,  and  has  been  received  more  favour- 
ably than  I  expected." 

But  the  matter  of  the  dedication  unfortunately 
lagged  far  behind  the  poet's  hopes.  After  the 
manuscript  was  left  at  the  house  of  her  Grace  of 
Devonshire  there  followed  what  the  Ancient 
Mariner  so  feelingly  calls  a  weary  time.  Poor 
Henry  in  Nottingham  hung  upon  the  postman's 
heels,  but  no  word  arrived  from  the  duchess. 
She  was  known  to  be  assaulted  from  all  sides  by 
such  applications:  indeed  her  mail  seems  to  have 
been  very  nearly  as  large  as  that  of  Mary  Pick- 
ford  or  Theda  Bara.  Then,  to  his  unspeakable 
anxiety,  the  miserable  and  fermenting  Henry 
learned  that  all  parcels  sent  to  the  duchess,  unless 
marked  with  a  password  known  only  to  her  par- 
ticular correspondents,  were  thrown  into  a  closet 


SHANDYGAFF  213 

by  her  porter  to  be  reclaimed  at  convenience,  or 
not  at  all.  "I  am  ruined,"  cried  Henry  in  agony; 
and  the  worthy  Neville  paid  several  unsuccess- 
ful visits  to  Devonshire  House  in  the  attempt  to 
retrieve  the  manuscript.  Finally,  after  waiting 
four  hours  in  the  servants'  hall,  he  succeeded. 
Even  then  undaunted,  this  long-suffering  older 
brother  made  one  more  try  in  the  poet's  behalf: 
he  obtained  a  letter  of  introduction  to  the  duchess, 
and  called  on  her  in  person,  wisely  leaving  the 
manuscript  at  home;  and  with  the  complaisance 
of  the  great  the  lady  readily  acquiesced  in  Henry's 
modest  request.  Her  name  was  duly  inscribed 
on  the  proper  page  of  the  little  volume,  and  in 
course  of  time  the  customary  morocco -bound 
copy  reached  her.  Alas,  she  took  no  notice  of  it, 
and  Mr.  Southey  surmises  that  "Involved  as 
she  was  in  an  endless  round  of  miserable  follies, 
it  is  probable  that  she  never  opened  the  book." 

"Clifton  Grove"  was  the  title  Henry  gave  the 
book,  published  in  1803. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  take  the  poems  in  this 
little  volume  more  seriously  than  any  seventeen- 
year-old  ejaculations.  It  is  easy  to  see  whatHenry 's 
reading  had  been — Milton,  Collins,  and  Gray,  evi- 
dently. His  unconscious  borrowings  from  Milton 
do  him  great  credit,  as  showing  how  thoroughly 
he  appreciated  good  poetry.  It  seeped  into  his 


214  SHANDYGAFF 

mind  and  became  part  of  his  own  outpourings.  II 
Penseroso  gushes  to  the  surface  of  poor  Henry 's 
song  every  few  lines;  precious  twigs  and  shreds  of 
Milton  flow  merrily  down  the  current  of  his 
thought.  And  yet  smile  as  we  may,  every  now 
and  then  friend  Henry  puts  something  over. 
One  of  his  poems  is  a  curious  foretaste  of  what 
Keats  was  doing  ten  years  later.  Every  now  and 
then  one  pauses  to  think  that  this  lad,  once  his 
youthful  vapours  were  over,  might  have  done 
great  things.  And  as  he  says  in  his  quaint 
little  preface,  "the  unpremeditated  effusions  of  a 
boy,  from  his  thirteenth  year,  employed,  not  in  the 
acquisition  of  literary  information,  but  in  the  more 
active  business  of  life,  must  not  be  expected  to 
exhibit  any  considerable  portion  of  the  correct- 
ness of  a  Virgil,  or  the  vigorous  compression  of  a 
Horace." 

The  publishing  game  was  new  to  Henry,  and 
the  slings  and  arrows  found  an  unshielded  heart. 
When  the  first  copies  of  his  poor  little  book  came 
home  from  the  printer  he  was  prostrated  to  find 
several  misprints.  He  nearly  swooned,  but 
seizing  a  pen  he  carefully  corrected  all  the  copies. 
After  writing  earnest  and  very  polite  letters  to 
all  the  reviewers  he  dispatched  copies  to  the  lead- 
ing periodicals,  and  sat  down  in  the  sure  hope  of 
rapid  fame.  How  bitter  was  his  chagrin  when 


SHANDYGAFF  215 

the  Monthly  Review  for  February,  1804,  came  out 
with  a  rather  disparaging  comment:  in  particular 
the  critic  took  umbrage  at  his  having  put  boy  to 
rhyme  with  sky,  and  added,  referring  to  Henry's 
hopes  of  a  college  course,  "If  Mr.  White  should 
be  instructed  by  alma  mater,  he  will,  doubtless, 
produce  better  sense  and  better  rhymes." 

The  review  was  by  no  means  unjust:  it  said 
what  any  disinterested  opinion  must  have  con- 
firmed, that  the  youth's  ambitions  were  excellent, 
but  that  neither  he,  nor  indeed  any  two-footed 
singer,  is  likely  to  be  an  immortal  poet  by  seven- 
teen. But  Henry's  sensitive  soul  had  been  so  in- 
flated by  the  honest  pride  of  his  friends  that  he 
could  only  see  gross  and  callous  malignity  and  con- 
spiracy in  the  criticism.  His  theology,  his  health,  his 
peace  of  mind,  were 'all  overthrown.  As  a  matter 
"of  fact,  however  (as  Southey  remarks),  it  was  the 
very  brusqueness  of  this  review  that  laid  the 
foundation  of  his  reputation.  The  circumstance 
aroused  Southey 's  interest  in  the  young  man's  ef- 
forts to  raise  himself  above  his  level  in  the  world  and 
it  was  the  laureate  who  after  Henry's  death  edited 
his  letters  and  literary  remains,  and  gave  him  to 
us  as  we  have  him.  Southey  tells  us  that  after 
the  young  man's  death  he  and  Coleridge  looked 
over  his  papers  with  great  emotion,  and  were 
amazed  at  the  fervour  of  his  industry  and  ambition. 


216  SHANDYGAFF 

Alas,  we  must  hurry  the  narrative,  on  which 
one  would  gladly  linger.  The  life  of  this  sad 
and  high-minded  anchorite  has  a  strong  fascina- 
tion for  me.  Melancholy  had  marked  him  for 
her  own:  he  himself  always  felt  that  he  had  not  a 
long  span  before  him.  Hindered  by  deafness, 
threatened  with  consumption,  and  a  deadlier 
enemy  yet — epilepsy — his  frail  and  uneasy  spirit 
had  full  right  to  distrust  its  tenement.  The 
summer  of  1804  he  spent  partly  at  Wilford,  a  little 
village  near  Nottingham  where  he  took  lodgings. 
His  employers  very  kindly  gave  him  a  generous 
holiday  to  recruit;  but  his  old  habits  of  excessive 
study  seized  him  again.  He  had,  for  the  time, 
given  up  hope  of  being  able  to  attend  the  univer- 
sity, and  accordingly  thought  it  all  the  more  nec- 
essary to  do  well  at  the  law.  Night  after  night 
he  would  read  till  two  or  three  in  the  morning,  lie' 
down  fully  dressed  on  his  bed,  and  rise  again  to 
work  at  five  or  six.  His  mother,  who  was  living 
with  him  in  his  retreat,  used  to  go  upstairs  to 
put  out  his  candle  and  see  that  he  went  to  bed; 
but  Henry,  so  docile  in  other  matters,  in  this  was 
unconquerable.  When  he  heard  his  mother's 
step  on  the  stair  he  would  extinguish  the  taper 
and  feign  sleep;  but  after  she  had  retired  he  would 
light  it  again  and  resume  his  reading.  Perhaps 
the  best  things  he  wrote  were  composed  in  this 


SHANDYGAFF  217 

period  of  extreme  depression.  The  "Ode  on  Dis- 
appointment," and  some  of  his  sonnets,  breathe  a 
quiet  dignity  of  resignation  to  sorrow  that  is  very 
touching  and  even  worthy  of  respect  as  poetry. 
He  never  escaped  the  cliche  and  the  bathetic,  but 
this  is  a  fair  example  of  his  midnight  musings  at 
their  highest  pitch: — 

TO  CONSUMPTION 

Gently,  most  gently,  on  thy  victim's  head, 
Consumption,  lay  thine  hand.     Let  me  decay, 
Like  the  expiring  lamp,  unseen,  away, 
And  softly  go  to  slumber  with  the  dead. 
And  if  'tis  true  what  holy  men  have  said, 
That  strains  angelic  oft  foretell  the  day 
Of  death,  to  those  good  men  who  fall  thy  prey, 
O  let  the  aerial  music  round  my  bed, 
Dissolving  sad  in  dying  symphony, 
Whisper  the  solemn  warning  in  mine  ear; 
That  I  may  bid  my  weeping  friends  good-bye, 
Ere  I  depart  upon  my  journey  drear: 
And  smiling  faintly  on  the  painful  past, 
Compose  my  decent  head,  and  breathe  my  last. 

But  in  spite  of  depression  and  ill  health,  he  was 
really  happy  at  Wilford,  a  village  in  the  elbow  of 
a  deep  gully  on  the  Trent,  and  near  his  well-be- 
loved Clifton  Woods.  On  the  banks  of  the  stream 
he  would  sit  for  hours  in  a  maze  of  dreams,  or 
wander  among  the  trees  on  summer  nights,  awed 


218  SHANDYGAFF 

by  the  sublime  beauty  of  the  lightning,  and  heed- 
less of  drenched  and  muddy  clothes. 

Later  in  the  summer  it  was  determined  that  he 
should  go  to  college  after  all;  and  by  the  generosity 
of  a  number  of  friends  (including  Neville  who 
promised  twenty  pounds  annually)  he  was  able 
to  enter  himself  for  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge. 
In  the  autumn  he  left  his  legal  employers,  who 
were  very  sorry  to  lose  him,  and  took  up  quarters 
with  a  clergyman  in  Lincolnshire  (Winteringham) 
under  whom  he  pursued  his  studies  for  a  year,  to 
prepare  himself  thoroughly  for  college.  His  letters 
during  this  period  are  mostly  of  a  religious  tinge, 
enlivened  only  by  a  mishap  while  boating  on  the 
Humber  when  he  was  stranded  for  six  hours  on  a 
sand-bank.  He  had  become  quite  convinced  that 
his  calling  was  the  ministry.  The  proper  obser- 
vance of  the  Sabbath  by  his  younger  brothers  and 
sisters  weighed  on  his  mind,  and  he  frequently 
wrote  home  on  this  topic. 

In  October,  1805,  we  find  him  settled  at  last  in 
his  rooms  at  St.  John's,  the  college  that  is  always 
dear  to  us  as  the  academic  home  of  two  very  dif- 
ferent undergraduates — William  Wordsworth  and 
Samuel  Butler.  His  rooms  were  in  the  rearmost 
court,  near  the  cloisters,  and  overlooking  the 
famous  Bridge  of  Sighs.  His  letters  give  us  a 
pleasant  picture  of  his  quiet  rambles  through  the 


SHANDYGAFF  219 

town,  his  solitary  cups  of  tea  as  he  sat  by  the  fire, 
and  his  disappointment  in  not  being  able  to  hear 
his  lecturers  on  account  of  his  deafness.  Most 
entertaining  to  any  one  at  all  familiar  with  the  life 
of  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  colleges  is  his 
account  of  the  thievery  of  his  "gyp"  (the  man- 
servant who  makes  the  bed,  cares  for  the  rooms, 
and  attends  to  the  wants  of  the  students). 
Poor  Henry's  tea,  sugar,  and  handkerchiefs  began 
to  vanish  in  the  traditional  way;  but  he  was 
practical  enough  to  buy  a  large  padlock  for  his 
coal  bin. 

But  Henry's  innocent  satisfaction  in  having  at 
last  attained  the  haven  of  his  desires  was  not  long 
of  duration.  In  spite  of  ill  health,  his  tutors 
constrained  him  to  enter  for  a  scholarship  ex- 
amination in  December,  and  when  the  unfortu- 
nate fellow  pleaded  physical  inability,  they  dosed 
him  with  "strong  medicines"  to  enable  him  to 
face  the  examiners.  After  the  ordeal  he  was  so 
unstrung  that  he  hurried  off  to  London  to  spend 
Christmas  with  his  aunt. 

The  account  of  his  year  at  college  is  very  piti- 
ful. His  tutors  were,  according  to  their  lights, 
very  kind ;  they  relieved  him  as  far  as  possible  from 
financial  worries,  but  they  did  not  ^  have  sense 
enough  to  restrain  him  from  incessant  study. 
Even  on  his  rambles  he  was  always  at  work  memo- 


220  SHANDYGAFF 

rizing  Greek  plays,  mathematical  theorems,  or 
what  not.  In  a  memorandum  found  in  his  desk 
his  life  was  thus  planned:  "Rise  at  half -past 
five.  Devotions  and  walk  till  seven.  Chapel 
and  breakfast  till  eight.  Study  and  lectures  till 
one.  Four  and  a  half  clear  reading.  Walk  and 
dinner,  and  chapel  to  six.  Six  to  nine  reading. 
Nine  to  ten,  devotions.  Bed  at  ten." 

In  the  summer  of  1806  his  examiners  ranked 
him  the  best  man  of  his  year,  and  in  mistaken 
kindness  the  college  decided  to  grant  him  the 
unusual  compliment  of  keeping  him  in  college 
through  the  vacation  with  a  special  mathematical 
tutor,  gratis,  to  work  with  him,  mathematics 
being  considered  his  weakness.  As  his  only 
chance  of  health  lay  in  complete  rest  during  the 
holiday,  this  plan  of  spending  the  summer  in 
study  was  simply  a  death  sentence.  In  July, 
while  at  work  on  logarithm  tables,  he  was  over- 
taken by  a  sudden  fainting  fit,  evidently  of  an 
epileptic  nature.  The  malady  gained  strength, 
aided  by  the  weakness  of  his  heart  and  lungs,  and 
he  died  on  October  19,  1806. 

Poor  Henry!  Surely  no  gentler,  more  innocent 
soul  ever  lived.  His  letters  are  a  golden  treasury 
of  earnest  and  solemn  speculation.  Perhaps  once 
a  twelvemonth  he  displays  a  sad  little  vein  of 
pleasantry,  but  not  for  long.  Probably  the 


SHANDYGAFF 

light-hearted  undergraduates  about  him  found 
him  a  very  prosy,  shabby,  and  mournful  young 
man,  but  if  one  may  judge  by  the  outburst  of 
tributary  verses  published  after  his  death  he  was 
universally  admired  and  respected.  Let  us  close 
the  story  by  a  quotation  from  a  tribute  paid  him 
by  a  lady  versifier: 

If  worth,  if  genius,  to  the  world  are  dear, 
To  Henry's  shade  devote  no  common  tear. 
His  worth  on  no  precarious  tenure  hung, 
From  genuine  piety  his  virtues  sprung: 
If  pure  benevolence,  if  steady  sense, 
Can  to  the  feeling  heart  delight  dispense; 
If  all  the  highest  efforts  of  the  mind, 
Exalted,  noble,  elegant,  refined, 
Call  for  fond  sympathy's  heartfelt  regret, 
Ye  sons  of  genius,  pay  the  mournful  debt! 


TRIVIA 

The  secret  thoughts  of  a  man  run  over  all  things,  holy, 
profane,  clean,  obscene,  grave,  and  light,  without  shame  or 
blame.  — HOB  BBS,  Leviathan,  Chap.  VIII. 

THE  bachelor  is  almost  extinct  in  America. 
Our  hopelessly  utilitarian  civilization 
demands  that  a  man  of  forty  should  be 
rearing  a  family,  should  go  to  an  office  five  times 
a  week,  and  pretend  an  interest  in  the  World's 
Series.  It  is  unthinkable  to  us  that  there  should 
be  men  of  mature  years  who  do  not  know  the 
relative  batting  averages  of  the  Red  Sox  and  the 
Pirates.  The  intellectual  and  strolling  male  of 
from  thirty-five  to  fifty-five  years  (which  is  what 
one  means  by  bachelor)  must  either  marry  and 
settle  down  in  the  Oranges,  or  he  must  flee  to 
Europe  or  the  MacDowell  Colony.  There  is  no 
alternative.  Vachel  Lindsay  please  notice. 

The  fate  of  Henry  James  is  a  case  in  point. 
Undoubtedly  he  fled  the  shores  of  his  native 
land  to  escape  the  barrage  of  the  bonbonniverous 
sub-deb,  who  would  else  have  mown  him  down 
without  ruth. 

222 


SHANDYGAFF 

But  in  England  they  still  linger,  these  quaint, 
phosphorescent  middle-aged  creatures,  lurking 
behind  a  screenage  of  muffins  and  crumpets  and 
hip  baths.  And  thither  fled  one  of  the  most 
delightful  born  bachelors  this  hemisphere  has 
ever  unearthed,  Mr.  Logan  Pearsall  Smith. 

Mr.  Smith  was  a  Philadelphian,  born  about 
fifty  years  ago.  But  that  most  amiable  of  cities 
does  not  encourage  detached  and  meditative 
bachelorhood,  and  after  sampling  what  is  quaintly 
known  as  "  a  guarded  education  in  morals  and  man- 
ners" at  Haverford  College,  our  hero  passed  to 
Harvard,  and  thence  by  a  swifter  decline  to 
Oxford.  Literature  and  liberalism  became  his 
pursuits;  on  the  one  hand,  he  found  himself  en- 
grossed in  the  task  of  proving  to  the  British  electo- 
rate that  England  need  not  always  remain  the 
same;  on  the  other,  he  wrote  a  Life  of  Sir  Henry 
Wotton,  a  volume  of  very  graceful  and  beautiful 
short  stories  about  Oxford  ("  The  Youth  of  Parnas- 
sus") and  a  valuable  little  book  on  the  history 
and  habits  of  the  English  language. 

But  in  spite  of  his  best  endeavours  to  quench 
and  subdue  his  mental  humours,  Mr.  Smith  found 
his  serious  moments  invaded  by  incomprehen- 
sible twinges  of  esprit.  Travelling  about  Eng- 
land, leading  the  life  of  the  typical  English  bache- 
lor, equipped  with  gladstone  bag,  shaving  kit, 


224  SHANDYGAFF 

evening  clothes  and  tweeds;  passing  from  country 
house  to  London  club,  from  Oxford  common  room 
to  Sussex  gardens,  the  solemn  pageantry  of  the 
cultivated  classes  now  and  then  burst  upon  him 
in  its  truly  comic  aspect.  The  tinder  and  steel 
of  his  wit,  too  uncontrollably  frictioned,  ignited  a 
shower  of  roman  candles,  and  we  conceive  him 
prostrated  with  irreverent  laughter  in  some  lonely 
railway  carriage. 

Mr.  Smith  did  his  best  to  take  life  seriously,  and 
I  believe  he  succeeded  passably  well  until  after 
forty  years  of  age.  But  then  the  spectacle  of  the 
English  vicar  toppled  him  over,  and  once  the 
gravity  of  the  Church  of  England  is  invaded,  all 
lesser  Alps  and  sanctuaries  lie  open  to  the  scourge. 
Menaced  by  serious  intellectual  disorders  unless 
he  were  to  give  vent  to  these  disturbing  levities, 
Mr.  Smith  began  to  set  them  down  under  the 
title  of  "Trivia,"  and  now  at  length  we  are  en- 
riched by  the  spectacle  of  this  iridescent  and 
puckish  little  book,  which  presents  as  it  were  a 
series  of  lantern  slides  of  an  ironical,  whimsical, 
and  merciless  sense  of  humour.  It  is  a  motion 
picture  of  a  middle-aged,  phosphorescent  mind 
that  has  long  tried  to  preserve  a  decent  melancholy 
but  at  last  capitulates  in  the  most  delicately  intel- 
lectual brainslide  of  our  generation. 

This  is  no  Ring  Lardner,no  Irvin  Cobb,no  Casey 


SHANDYGAFF 

at  the  bat.  Mr.  Smith  is  an  infinitely  close  and 
acute  observer  of  sophisticated  social  life,  tinged 
with  a  faint  and  agreeable  refined  sadness,  by  an 
aura  of  shyness  which  amounts  to  a  spiritual  vir- 
ginity. He  comes  to  us  trailing  clouds  of  glory 
from  the  heaven  of  pure  and  unfettered  specula- 
tion which  is  our  home.  He  is  an  elf  of  utter 
simplicity  and  infinite  candour.  He  is  a  flicker 
of  absolute  Mind.  His  little  book  is  as  precious 
and  as  disturbing  as  devilled  crabs. 

Blessed,  blessed  little  book,  how  you  will  run 
like  quicksilver  from  mind  to  mind,  leaping — a 
shy  and  shining  spark — from  brain  to  brain!  I 
know  of  nothing  since  Lord  Bacon  quite  like  these 
ineffably  dainty  little  paragraphs  of  gilded  whim, 
these  rainbow  nuggets  of  swistful  inquiry,  these 
butterfly  wings  of  fancy,  these  pointed  sparklers 
of  wit.  A  purge,  by  Zeus,  a  purge  for  the  wicked! 
Irony  so  demure,  so  quaint,  so  far  away;  pathos 
so  void  of  regret,  merriment  so  delicate  that  one 
dare  not  laugh  for  fear  of  dispelling  the  charm — 
all  this  is  "Trivia."  Where  are  Marcus  Aurelius 
or  Epictetus  or  all  the  other  Harold  Bell  Wrights 
of  old  time?  Baron  Verulam  himself  treads  a 
heavy  gait  beside  this  airy  elfin  scamper.  It  is 
Atalanta's  heels.  It  is  a  heaven-given  scena- 
rio of  that  shyest,  dearest,  remotest  of  essences — 
the  mind  of  a  strolling  bachelor. 


SHANDYGAFF 

Bless  his  heart,  in  a  momentary  panic  of  mod- 
esty at  the  thought  of  all  his  sacred  spots  laid  bare, 
the  heavenly  man  tries  to  scare  us  away.  !*  These 
pieces  of  moral  prose  have  been  written,  dear 
Reader,  by  a  large,  Carnivorous  Mammal,  belong- 
ing to  that  suborder  of  the  Animal  Kingdom 
which  includes  also  the  Orange-outang,  the  tusked 
Gorilla,  the  Baboon,  with  his  bright  blue  and 
scarlet  bottom,  and  the  gentle  Chimpanzee." 

But  this  whimsical  brother  to  the  chimpanzee, 
despite  this  last  despairing  attempt  at  modest 
evasion,  denudes  himself  before  us.  And  his 
heart,  we  find,  is  strangely  like  our  own.  His 
reveries,  his  sadnesses,  his  exhilarations,  are  all 
ours,  too.  Like  us  he  cries,  "I  wish  I  were  un- 
flinching and  emphatic,  and  had  big  bushy  eye- 
brows and  a  Message  for  the  Age.  I  wish  I  were 
a  deep  Thinker,  or  a  great  Ventriloquist."  Like 
us  he  has  that  dreadful  feeling  (now  and  then)  of 
being  only  a  ghost,  a  thin,  unreal  phantom  in  a 
world  of  bank  cashiers  and  duchesses  and  pros- 
perous merchants  and  other  Real  Persons.  Like 
us  he  fights  a  losing  battle  against  the  platitudes 
and  moral  generalizations  that  hem  us  round. 
"I  can  hardly  post  a  letter,"  he  laments,  "without 
marvelling  at  the  excellence  and  accuracy  of  the 
Postal  System."  And  he  consoles  himself,  good 
man,  with  the  thought  of  the  meaningless  creation 


SHANDYGAFF 

crashing  blindly  through  frozen  space.  His  other 
great  consolation  is  his  dear  vice  of  reading — 
"This  joy  not  dulled  by  Age,  this  polite  and  un- 
punished vice,  this  selfish,  serene,  life-long  in- 
toxication." 

It  is  impossible  by  a  few  random  snippets  to 
give  any  just  figment  of  the  delicious  mental 
intoxication  of  this  piercing,  cathartic  little 
volume.  It  is  a  bright  tissue  of  thought  robing  a 
radiant,  dancing  spirit.  Through  the  shimmering 
veil  of  words  we  catch,  now  and  then,  a  flashing 
glimpse  of  the  Immortal  Whimsy  within,  shy, 
sudden,  and  defiant.  Across  blue  bird-haunted 
English  lawns  we  follow  that  gracious  figure, 
down  dusky  London  streets  where  he  is  peering 
in  at  windows  and  laughing  incommunicable  jests. 

But  alas,  Mr.  Pearsall  Smith  is  lost  to  America. 
The  warming  pans  and  the  twopenny  tube  have 
lured  him  away  from  us.  Never  again  will  he 
tread  on  peanut  shells  in  the  smoking  car  or  read 
the  runes  about  Phoebe  Snow.  Chiclets  and 
Spearmint  and  Walt  Mason  and  the  Toonerville 
Trolley  and  the  Prince  Albert  ads — these  mean 
nothing  to  him.  He  will  never  compile  an 
anthology  of  New  York  theatrical  notices:  "The 
play  that  makes  the  dimples  to  catch  the  tears." 
Careful  and  adroit  propaganda,  begun  twenty 
years  ago  by  the  Department  of  State,  might  have 


228  SHANDYGAFF 

won  him  back,  but  now  it  is  impossible  to  repat- 
riate him.  The  exquisite  humours  of  our  Ameri- 
can life  are  faded  from  his  mind.  He  has  gone 
across  the  great  divide  that  separates  a  subway 
from  an  underground  and  an  elevator  from  a  lift. 
I  wonder  does  he  ever  mourn  the  scrapple  and 
buckwheat  cakes  that  were  his  birthright? 

Major  George  Haven  Putnam  in  his  "Memo- 
ries of  a  Publisher"  describes  a  famous  tennis 
match  played  at  Oxford  years  ago,  when  he  and 
Pearsall  Smith  defeated  A.  L.  Smith  and  Herbert 
Fisher,  the  two  gentlemen  who  are  now  Master  of 
Balliol  and  British  Minister  of  Education.  The 
Balliol  don  attributed  the  British  defeat  in  this  in- 
ternational tourney  to  the  fact  that  his  tennis  shoes 
(shall  we  say  his  "sneakers?")  came  to  grief  and 
he  had  to  play  the  crucial  games  in  stocking  feet. 
But  though  Major  Putnam  and  his  young  ally 
won  the  set  of  patters  (let  us  use  the  Wykehamist 
word),  the  Major  allowed  the  other  side  to  gain 
a  far  more  serious  victory.  They  carried  off  the 
young  Philadelphian  and  kept  him  in  England 
until  he  was  spoiled  for  all  good  American  uses. 
That  was  badly  done,  Major!  Because  we 
needed  Pearsall  Smith  over  here,  and  now  we 
shall  never  recapture  him.  He  will  go  on  calling 
an  elevator  a  lift,  and  he  will  never  write  an 
American  "Trivia." 


PREFACES 

IT  HAS  long  been  my  conviction  that  the 
most  graceful  function  of  authorship  is  the 
writing  of  prefaces.  What  is  more  pleasant 
than  dashing  off  those  few  pages  of  genial  intro- 
duction after  all  the  dreary  months  of  spading  at 
the  text?  A  paragraph  or  two  as  to  the  intentions 
of  the  book;  allusions  to  the  unexpected  difficulties 
encountered  during  composition;  neatly  phrased 
gratitude  to  eminent  friends  who  have  given 
gracious  assistance;  and  a  touching  allusion  to  the 
Critic  on  the  Hearth  who  has  done  the  indexing — 
one  of  the  trials  of  the  wives  of  literary  men  not 
mentioned  by  Mrs.  Andrew  Lang  in  her  pleasant 
essay  on  that  topic.  A  pious  wish  to  receive 
criticisms  "in  case  a  second  edition  should  be 
called  for";  your  address,  and  the  date,  add  a 
homely  touch  at  the  end. 

How  delightful  this  bit  of  pleasant  intimacy 
after  the  real  toil  is  over!  It  is  like  paterfamilias 
coming  out  of  his  house  at  dusk,  after  the  hard 
day's  work,  to  read  his  newspaper  on  the  door- 
step. Or  it  may  be  a  bit  of  superb  gesturing.  No 
book  is  complete  without  a  preface.  Better  a 
preface  without  a  book.  . 

229 


230  SHANDYGAFF 

Many  men  have  written  books  without  pref- 
aces. But  not  many  have  written  prefaces  with- 
out books.  And  yet  I  am  convinced  it  is  one  of 
the  subtlest  pleasures.  I  have  planned  several 
books,  not  yet  written;  but  the  prefaces  are  all 
ready  this  many  a  day.  Let  me  show  you  the  sort 
of  thing  I  mean. 

PREFACE  TO   "THE   LETTERS   OF  ANDREW  MCGILL," 

How  well  I  remember  the  last  time  I  saw  An- 
drew McGill!  It  was  in  the  dear  old  days  at  Rut- 
gers, my  last  term.  I  was  sitting  over  a  book  one 
brilliant  May  afternoon,  rather  despondent- 
there  came  a  rush  up  the  stairs  and  a  thunder  at 
the  door.  I  knew  his  voice,  and  hurried  to  open. 
Poor,  dear  fellow,  he  was  just  back  from  tennis; 
I  never  saw  him  look  so  glorious.  Tall  and  thin — 
he  was  always  very  thin,  see  p.  219  and  passim— 
with  his  long,  brown  face  and  sparkling  black 
eyes — I  can  see  him  still  rambling  about  the  room 
in  his  flannels,  his  curly  hair  damp  on  his  forehead. 
"Buzzard,"  he  said — he  always  called  me  Buz- 
zard— "guess  what's  happened?" 

"In  love  again?"  I  asked. 

He  laughed.  A  bright,  golden  laugh — I  can 
hear  it  still.  His  laughter  was  always  infec- 
tious. 

"No,"  he  said.     "Dear  silly  old  Buzzard,  what 


SHANDYGAFF  231 

do  you  think?  I've  won  the  Sylvanus  Stall 
fellowship." 

I  shall  never  forget  that  moment.  It  was  very 
still,  and  in  the  college  garden,  just  under  my 
window,  I  could  hear  a  party  of  Canadian  girls 
deliciously  admiring  things.  It  was  a  cruel 
instant  for  me.  I,  too,  in  my  plodding  way, 
had  sent  in  an  essay  for  the  prize,  but  without  tell- 
ing him.  Must  I  confess  it?  I  had  never  dared 
mention  the  subject  for  fear  he,  too,  would  com- 
pete. I  knew  that  if  he  did  he  was  sure  to  win. 
O  petty  jealousies,  that  seem  so  bitter  now ! 

"Rude  old  Buzzard,"  he  said  in  his  bantering 
way,  "you  haven't  congratulated!" 

I  pulled  myself  together. 

"Brindle,"  I  said — I  always  called  him  Brindle; 
how  sad  the  nickname  sounds  now — "you  took 
my  breath  away.  Dear  lad,  I'm  overjoyed." 

It  is  four  and  twenty  years  since  that  May 
afternoon.  I  never  saw  him  again.  Never  even 
heard  him  read  the  brilliant  poem  "Sunset  from 
the  Mons  Veneris"  that  was  the  beginning  of  his 
career,  for  the  week  before  commencement  I  was 
taken  ill  and  sent  abroad  for  my  health.  I  never 
came  back  to  New  York;  and  he  remained  there. 
But  I  followed  his  career  with  the  closest  attention. 
Every  newspaper  cutting,  every  magazine  article 
in  which  his  name  was  mentioned,  went  into  my 


232  SHANDYGAFF 

scrapbook.  And  almost  every  week  for  twenty 
years  he  wrote  to  me— those  long,  radiant  letters, 
so  full  of  verve  and  elan  and  ringing,  ruthless  wit. 
There  was  always  something  very  Gallic  about  his 
saltiness.  "Oh,  to  be  born  a  Frenchman!"  he 
writes.  "Why  wasn't  I  born  a  Frenchman 
instead  of  a  dour,  dingy  Scotsman?  Oh,  for  the 
birthright  of  Montmartre!  Stead  of  which  I  have 
the  mess  of  pottage — stodgy,  por ridgy  Scots 
pottage"  (seep.  189). 

He  had  his  sombre  moods,  too.  It  was  char- 
acteristic of  him,  when  in  a  pet,  to  wish  he  had 
been  born  other-where  than  by  the  pebbles  of 
Arbroath.  "  Oh,  to  have  been  born  a  Norseman ! " 
he  wrote  once.  "Oh,  for  the  deep  Scandinavian 
scourge  of  pain,  the  inbrooding,  marrowy  soul-ache 
of  Ibsen!  That  is  the  fertilizing  soil  of  tragedy. 
Tragedy  springs  from  it,  tall  and  white  and  stately 
like  the  lily  from  the  dung.  I  will  never  be  a 
tragedian.  Oh,  pebbles  of  Arbroath!" 

All  the  world  knows  how  he  died.     .     .     . 

PREFACE   TO   AN   HISTORICAL   WORK 

(In  six  volumes) 

The  work  upon  which  I  have  spent  the  best 
years  of  my  life  is  at  length  finished.  After  two 
decades  of  uninterrupted  toil,  enlivened  only  by 
those  small  bickerings  over  minutiae  so  dear  to  all 


SHANDYGAFF  233 

scrupulous  writers,  I  may  perhaps  be  pardoned 
if  I  philosophize  for  a  few  moments  on  the  func- 
tions of  the  historian. 

There  are,  of  course,  two  technical  modes  of 
approach,  quite  apart  from  the  preparatory  con- 
templation of  the  field.  (This  last,  I  might  add, 
has  been  singularly  neglected  by  modern  histor- 
ians. My  old  friend,  Professor  Spondee,  of  Halle, 
though  deservedly  eminent  in  his  chosen  lot,  is 
particularly  open  to  criticism  on  this  ground.  I 
cannot  emphasize  too  gravely  the  importance  of 
preliminary  calm — what  Hobbes  calls  "the  un- 
prejudicated  mind."  But  this  by  way  of  paren- 
thesis.) One  may  attack  the  problem  with  the 
mortar  trowel,  or  with  the  axe.  Sismondi,  I  think, 
has  observed  this. 

Some  such  observations  as  these  I  was  privi- 
leged to  address  to  my  very  good  friend,  Professor 
Fish,  of  Yale,  that  justly  renowned  seat  of  learn- 
ing, when  lecturing  in  New  Haven  recently.  His 
reply  was  witty — too  witty  to  be  apt,  "Piscem 
natare  doces,"  he  said. 

I  will  admit  that  Professor  Fish  may  be  free  from 
taint  in  this  regard;  but  many  historians  of  to-day 
are,  I  fear,  imbued  with  that  most  dangerous 
tincture  of  historical  cant  which  lays  it  down  as  a 
maxim  that  contemporary  history  cannot  be  ju- 
dicially written. 


234  SHANDYGAFF 

Those  who  have  been  kind  enough  to  display 
some  interest  in  the  controversy  between  myself 
and  M.  Rougegorge — of  the  Sorbonne-^in  the 
matter  of  Lamartine's  account  of  the  elections  to 
the  Constituent  Assembly  of  1848,  will  remark 
several  hitherto  unobserved  errors  in  Lamartine 
which  I  have  been  privileged  to  point  out.  For 
instance,  Lamartine  (who  is  supported  in  toto  by 
M.  Rougegorge)  asserts  that  the  elections  took 
place  on  Easter  Sunday,  April  27,  1848.  Where- 
as, I  am  able  to  demonstrate,  by  reference  to  the 
astronomical  tables  at  Kew  Observatory,  that  in 
1848  Easter  Day  fell  upon  April  23.  M.  Rouge- 
gorge's  assertion  that  Lamartine  was  a  slave  to 
opium  rests  upon  a  humorous  misinterpretation  of 
Mme.  Lamartine's  diary.  (The  matter  may  be 
looked  up  by  the  curious  in  Annette  Oser's 
"Annees  avec  les  Lamartines."  Oser  was  for 
many  years  the  cook  in  Lamartine's  household, 
and  says  some  illuminating  things  regarding  L.'s 
dislike  of  onions.) 

It  is,  of  course,  impossible  for  me  to  acknowledge 
individually  the  generous  and  stimulating  assist- 
ance I  have  received  from  so  many  scholars  in  all 
parts  of  the  world.  The  mere  list  of  names  would 
be  like  Southey's  "Cataract  of  Lodore,"  and 
would  be  but  an  ungracious  mode  of  returning 
thanks.  I  cannot,  however,  forbear  to  mention 


SHANDYGAFF  235 

Professor  Mandrake,  of  the  Oxford  Chair,  optimus 
maximus  among  modern  historians.  Of  him  I 
may  say,  in  the  fine  words  of  Virgil,  "Sedet 
aeternumque  sedebit." 

My  dear  wife,  fortunately  a  Serb  by  birth,  has 
regularized  my  Slavic  orthography,  and  has 
grown  gray  in  the  service  of  the  index.  To  her, 
and  to  my  little  ones,  whose  merry  laughter  has 
so  often  penetrated  to  my  study  and  cheered  me 
at  my  travail,  I  dedicate  the  whole.  89,  Decam- 
eron Gardens. 

PREFACE    TO    A    BOOK    OF    POEMS 

This  little  selection  of  verses,  to  which  I  have 
given  the  title  "Rari  Nantes,"  was  made  at  the 
instance  of  several  friends.  I  have  chosen  from 
my  published  works  those  poems  which  seemed 
to  me  most  faithfully  to  express  my  artistic  mes- 
sage; and  the  title  obviously  implies  that  I  think 
them  the  ones  most  likely  to  weather  the  mael- 
stroms of  Time.  Be  that  as  it  may. 

Vachel  Lindsay  and  I  have  often  discussed  over 
a  glass  of  port  (one  glass  only:  alas,  that  Vachel 
should  abstain!)  the  state  of  the  Muse  to-day. 
He  deems  that  she  now  has  fled  from  cities  to 
dwell  on  the  robuster  champaigns  of  Illinois  and 
Kansas.  Would  that  I  could  agree;  but  I  see  her 
in  the  cities  and  everywhere,  set  down  to  menial 


236  ,      SHANDYGAFF 

taskwork.  She  were  better  in  exile,  on  Ibsen's 
sand  dunes  or  Maeterlinck's  bee  farm.  But  in 
America  the  times  are  very  evil.  Prodigious 
convulsion  of  production,  the  grinding  of  mighty 
forces,  the  noise  and  rushings  of  winds — and  what 
avails?  Parturiunt  monies  .  .  .  you  know 
the  rest.  The  ridiculous  mice  squeak  and  scam- 
per on  the  granary  floor.  They  may  play  undis- 
turbed, ior  the  real  poets,  those  great  gray  felines, 
are  sifting  loam  under  Westminster.  Gramercy 
Park  and  the  Poetry  Society  see  them  not. 

It  matters  not.     With  this  little  book  my  task  is 
done.     Vachel   and  I   sail  to-morrow  for  Nova 
Zembla. 
The  Grotto,   Yonkers. 

PREFACE    TO    THE    SECOND    EDITION 

A  second  edition  of  "Rari  Nantes"  having  been 
called  for,  I  have  added  three  more  poems, 
Esquimodes  written  since  arriving  here.  Also  the 
"Prayer  for  Warm  Weather,"  by  Vachel  Lindsay, 
is  included,  at  his  express  request.  The  success 
of  the  first  edition  has  been  very  gratifying  to 
me.  My  publishers  will  please  send  reviews  to 
Bleak  House,  Nova  Zembla. 

PREFACE    TO    THE    THIRD    EDITION 

The  rigorous  climate  of  Nova  Zembla  I  find 
most  stimulating  to  production,  and  therefore  in 


SHANDYGAFF 

this  new  edition  I  am  able  to  include  several  new 
poems.  "The  Ode  to  a  Seamew,"  the  "Fracas 
on  an  Ice  Floe,"  and  the  sequence  of  triolimericks 
are  all  new.  If  I  have  been  able  to  convey  any- 
thing of  the  bracing  vigour  of  the  Nova  Zembla 
locale  the  praise  is  due  to  my  friendly  and  sug- 
gestive critic,  the  editor  of  Gooseflesh,  the  lead- 
ing Nova  Zemblan  review. 

Vachel  Lindsay's  new  book,  "The  Tango,*' 
has  not  yet  appeared,  therefore  I  may  perhaps 
say  here  that  he  is  hard  at  work  on  an  "Ode  to  the 
Gulf  Stream,"  which  has  great  promise. 

The  success  of  this  little  book  has  been  such 
that  I  am  encouraged  to  hope  that  the  publisher's 
exemption  of  royalties  will  soon  be  worked  off. 


THE  SKIPPER 

I  HAVE  been  reading  again  that  most  delight- 
ful of  all  autobiographies,  "A  Personal 
Record,"  by  Joseph  Conrad.  Mr.  Conrad's 
mind  is  so  rich,  it  has  been  so  well  mulched  by 
years  of  vigorous  life  and  sober  thinking,  that  it 
pushes  tendrils  of  radiant  speculation  into  every 
crevice  of  the  structure  upon  which  it  busies 
itself.  This  figure  of  speech  leaves  much  to  be 
desired  and  calls  for  apology,  but  in  perversity 
and  profusion  the  trellis  growth  of  Mr.  Conrad's 
memories,  here  blossoming  before  the  delighted 
reader's  eyes,  runs  like  some  ardent  trumpet  vine 
or  Virginia  creeper,  spreading  hither  and  thither, 
redoubling  on  itself,  branching  unexpectedly  upon 
spandrel  and  espalier,  and  repeatedly  enchanting 
us  with  some  delicate  criss-cross  of  mental  fibres. 
One  hesitates  even  to  suggest  that  there  may  be 
admirers  of  Mr.  Conrad  who  are  not  familiar  with 
this  picture  of  his  mind — may  we  call  it  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  minds  that  has  ever  concerned 
itself  with  the  setting  of  English  words  horizontally 
in  parallel  lines? 
The  fraternity  of  gentlemen  claiming  to  have 

238 


SHANDYGAFF  289 

been  the  first  on  this  continent  to  appreciate 
the  vaulting  genius  of  Mr.  Conrad  grows  numer- 
ous indeed;  almost  as  many  as  the  discoverers  of 
O.  Henry  and  the  pallbearers  of  Ambrose  Bierce. 
It  would  be  amusing  to  enumerate  the  list  of  those 
who  have  assured  me  (over  the  sworn  secrecy  of  a 
table  d'hote  white  wine)  that  they  read  the  proof- 
sheets  of  "Almayer's  Folly"  in  1895,  etc.,  etc.  For 
my  own  part,  let  me  be  frank.  I  do  not  think  I  ever 
heard  of  Mr.  Conrad  before  December  2, 1911.  On 
that  date,  which  was  one  day  short  of  the  seven- 
teenth anniversary  of  Stevenson's  death,  a  small 
club  of  earnest  young  men  was  giving  a  dinner  to 
Sir  Sidney  Colvin  at  the  Randolph  Hotel  in 
Oxford.  Sir  Sidney  told  us  many  anecdotes  of 
R.  L.  S.,  and  when  the  evening  was  far  spent  I 
remember  that  someone  asked  him  whether  there 
was  any  writer  of  to-day  in  whom  he  felt  the 
same  passionate  interest  as  in  Stevenson,  any 
man  now  living  whose  work  he  thought  would 
prove  a  permanent  enrichment  of  English  liter- 
ature. Sir  Sidney  Colvin  is  a  scrupulous  and 
sensitive  critic,  and  a  sworn  enemy  of  loose  state- 
ment; let  me  not  then  pretend  to  quote  him  exactly; 
but  I  know  that  the  name  he  mentioned  was  that 
of  Joseph  Conrad,  and  it  was  a  new  name  to 
me. 

Even  so,  I  think  it  was  not  until  over  a  year  later 


240  SHANDYGAFF 

that  first  I  read  one  of  Mr.  Conrad's  books;  and  1 
am  happy  to  remember  that  it  was  "Typhoon," 
which  I  read  at  one  sitting  in  the  second-class  dining 
saloon  of  the  Celtic,  crossing  from  New  York  in 
January,  1913.  There  was  a  very  violent  westerly 
gale  at  the  time — a  famous  shove,  Captain  Conrad 
would  call  it — and  I  remember  that  the  baro- 
meter went  lower  than  had  ever  been  recorded 
before  on  the  western  ocean.  The  piano  in  the 
saloon  carried  away,  and  frolicked  down  the  aisle 
between  the  tables:  it  was  an  ideal  stage  set  for 
"Typhoon."  The  saloon  was  far  aft,  and  a  hatch- 
way just  astern  of  where  I  sat  was  stove  in  by  the 
seas.  By  sticking  my  head  through  a  window  I 
could  see  excellent  combers  of  green  sloshing  down 
into  the  'tweendecks. 

But  the  inspired  discursiveness  of  Mr.  Conrad 
is  not  to  be  imitated  here.  The  great  pen  which 
has  paid  to  human  life  "the  undemonstrative  trib- 
ute of  a  sigh  which  is  not  a  sob,  and  of  a  smile 
which  is  not  a  grin,"  needs  no  limping  praise  of 
mine.  But  sometimes,  when  one  sits  at  midnight 
by  the  fainting  embers  and  thinks  that  of  all 
novelists  now  living  one  would  most  ardently 
yearn  to  hear  the  voice  and  see  the  face  of  Mr. 
Conrad,  then  it  is  happy  to  recall  that  in  "A  Per- 
sonal Record"  one  comes  as  close  as  typography 
permits  to  a  fireside  chat  with  the  Skipper  himself . 


SHANDYGAFF  241 

He  tells  us  that  he  has  never  been  very  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  art  of  conversation,  but  re- 
membering Marlowe,  we  set  this  down  as  polite 
modesty  only.  Here  in  the  "Personal  Record" 
is  Marlowe  ipse,  pipe  in  mouth,  and  in  retrospec- 
tive mood.  This  book  and  the  famous  preface 
to  the  "Nigger"  give  us  the  essence,  the  bouillon, 
of  his  genius.  Greatly  we  esteem  what  Mr. 
Walpole,  Mr.  Powys,  Mr.  James,  and  (optimus 
maximus)  Mr.  Follett,  have  said  about  him;  but 
who  would  omit  the  chance  to  hear  him  from  his 
proper  mouth?  And  in  these  informal  confessions 
there  are  pieces  that  are  destined  to  be  classics 
of  autobiography  as  it  is  rarely  written. 

One  cannot  resist  the  conviction  that  Mr.  Con- 
rad, traditionally  labelled  complex  and  tortuous 
by  the  librarians,  is  in  reality  as  simple  as  lightning 
or  dawn.  Fidelity,  service,  sincerity — those  are 
the  words  that  stand  again  and  again  across  his 
pages.  "I  have  a  positive  horror  of  losing  even 
for  one  moving  moment  that  full  possession  of 
myself  which  is  the  first  condition  of  good  ser- 
vice." He  has  carried  over  to  the  world  of  desk 
and  pen  the  rigorous  tradition  of  the  sea.  He 
says  that  he  has  been  attributed  an  unemotional, 
grim  acceptance  of  facts,  a  hardness  of  heart.  To 
which  he  answers  that  he  must  tell  as  he  sees, 
and  that  the  attempt  to  move  others  to  the 


SHANDYGAFF 

extremities  of  emotion  means  the  surrendering 
one's  self  to  exaggeration,  allowing  one's  self  to 
be  carried  away  beyond  the  bounds  of  normal 
sensibility.  Self-restraint  is  the  duty,  the  dignity, 
the  decency  of  the  artist.  This,  indeed,  is  the 
creed  of  the  simple  man  in  every  calling;  and  from 
this  angle  it  appears  that  it  is  the  Pollyananiases 
and  the  Harold  Bell  Wrights  who  are  compli- 
cated and  subtle;  it  is  Mr.  Conrad,  indeed,  who 
is  simple  with  the  great  simplicity  of  life  and 
death. 

Truly  in  utter  candour  and  simplicity  no  book 
of  memoirs  since  the  synoptic  gospels  exceeds 
"A  Personal  Record."  Such  minor  facts  as 
where  the  writer  was  born,  and  when,  and  the 
customary  demonology  of  boyhood  and  courtship 
and  the  first  pay  envelope,  are  gloriously  ignored. 
A  statistician,  an  efficiency  pundit,  a  literary  ac- 
countant, would  rise  from  the  volume  nervously 
shattered  from  an  attempt  to  grasp  what  it  was 
all  about.  The  only  person  in  the  book  who  is 
accorded  any  comprehensive  biographical  resume 
is  a  certain  great-uncle  of  Mr.  Conrad,  Mr. 
Nicholas  B.,  who  accompanied  Bonaparte  on  his 
midwinter  junket  to  Moscow,  and  was  bitterly 
constrained  to  eat  a  dog  in  the  forests  of  Lith- 
uania. To  the  delineation  of  this  warrior,  who 
was  a  legend  of  his  youth,  Mr.  Conrad  devotes  his 


SHANDYGAFF  243 

most  affectionate  and  tender  power  of  whimsical 
reminiscence;  and  in  truth  his  sketches  of  family 
history  make  the  tragedies  of  Poland  clearer  to  me 
than  several  volumes  of  historical  comment.  In 
his  prose  of  that  superbly  rich  simplicity  of  texture 
— it  is  a  commonplace  that  it  seems  always  like 
some  notable  translation  from  the  French — he 
looks  back  across  the  plains  of  Ukraine,  and 
takes  us  with  him  so  unquestionably  that  even 
the  servant  who  drives  him  to  his  uncle's  house 
becomes  a  figure  in  our  own  daily  lives.  And  to 
our  delicious  surprise  we  find  that  the  whole  of  two 
long  chapters  constitutes  merely  his  musings  in 
half  an  hour  while  he  is  waiting  for  dinner  at  his 
uncle's  house.  With  what  adorable  tenderness 
he  reviews  the  formative  contours  of  boyish  mem- 
ories, telling  us  the  whole  mythology  of  his  youth! 
Upon  my  soul,  sometimes  I  think  that  this  is  the 
only  true  autobiography  ever  written:  true  to  the 
inner  secrets  of  the  human  soul.  It  is  the  pass- 
key to  the  Master's  attitude  toward  all  the  dear 
creations  of  his  brain;  it  is  the  spiritual  scenario 
of  every  novel  he  has  written.  What  self- 
revealing  words  are  these:  "An  imaginative 
and  exact  rendering  of  authentic  memories  may 
serve  worthily  that  spirit  of  piety  toward  all  things 
human  which  sanctions  the  conceptions  of  a  writer 
of  tales."  And  when  one  stops  to  consider,  how 


244  SHANDYGAFF 

essentially  impious  and  irreverent  to  humanity 
are  the  novels  of  the  Slop  and  Glucose  school ! 

This  marvellous  life,  austere,  glowing,  faithful 
to  everything  that  deserves  fidelity,  contradictory 
to  all  the  logarithms  of  probability,  this  tissue  of 
unlikelihoods  by  which  a  Polish  lad  from  the  heart 
of  Europe  was  integrated  into  the  greatest  living 
master  of  those  who  in  our  tongue  strive  to  por- 
tray the  riddles  of  the  human  heart — such  is  the 
kind  of  calculus  that  makes  "A  Personal  Record" 
unique  among  textbooks  of  the  soul.  It  is  as 
impossible  to  describe  as  any  dear  friend.  Setting 
out  only  with  the  intention  to  "present  faithfully 
the  feelings  and  sensations  connected  with  the 
writing  of  my  first  book  and  with  my  first  contact 
with  the  sea,"  Mr.  Conrad  set  down  what  is  really 
nothing  less  than  a  Testament  of  all  that  is  most 
precious  in  human  life.  And  the  sentiment  with 
which  one  lays  it  by  is  that  the  scribbler  would 
gladly  burn  every  shred  of  foolscap  he  had  black- 
ened and  start  all  over  again  with  truer  ideals 
for  his  craft,  could  he  by  so  doing  have  chance  to 
meet  the  Skipper  face  to  face. 

Indeed,  if  Mr.  Conrad  had  never  existed  it 
would  have  been  necessary  to  invent  him,  the 
indescribable  improbability  of  his  career  speaks 
so  closely  to  the  heart  of  every  lover  of  literary 
truth.  Who  of  his  heroes  is  so  fascinating  to  us 


SHANDYGAFF  245 

as  he  himself?  How  imperiously,  by  his  own 
noble  example,  he  recalls  us  to  the  service  of 
honourable  sincerity.  And  how  poignantly  these 
memories  of  his  evoke  the  sigh  which  is  not  a 
sob,  the  smile  which  is  not  a  grin. 


A  FRIEND  OF  FITZGERALD 

Loder  is  a  Rock  of  Ages  to  rely  on. 

— EDWARD  FITZGERALD. 

I  HEARD  the  other  day  of  the  death  of  dear 
old  John  Loder,  the  Woodbridge  book- 
seller, at  the  age  of  ninety- two.  Though 
ill  equipped  to  do  justice  to  his  memory,  it  seems 
to  me  a  duty,  and  a  duty  that  I  take  up  gladly. 
It  is  not  often  that  a  young  man  has  the  good 
fortune  to  know  as  a  friend  one  who  has  been  a 
crony  of  his  own  grandfather  and  great-grand- 
father. Such  was  my  privilege  in  the  case  of  John 
Loder,  a  man  whose  life  was  all  sturdy  simplicity 
and  generous  friendship.  He  shines  in  no  merely 
reflected  light,  but  in  his  own  native  nobility.  I 
think  there  are  a  few  lovers  of  England  and  of 
books  who  will  be  glad  not  to  forget  his  unobtru- 
sive services  to  literature.  If  only  John  Loder 
had  kept  a  journal  it  would  be  one  of  the  minor 
treasures  of  the  Victorian  Age.  He  had  a  racy, 
original  turn  of  speech,  full  of  the  Suffolk  lingo 
that  so  delighted  his  friend  FitzGerald;  full,  too, 
of  the  delicacies  of  rich  thought  and  feeling.  He 


SHANDYGAFF  24? 

• 

Used  to  lament  in  his  later  years  that  he  had  not 
kept  a  diary  as  a  young  man.  Alas  that  his  Bos- 
well  came  too  late  to  do  more  than  snatch  at  a 
few  of  his  memories. 

There  is  a  little  Suffolk  town  on  the  salt  tide- 
water of  the  Deben,  some  ten  miles  from  the  sea. 
Its  roofs  of  warm  red  tile  are  clustered  on  the  hill- 
slopes  that  run  down  toward  the  river;  a  massive, 
gray  church  tower  and  a  great  windmill  are 
conspicuous  landmarks.  Broad  barges  and  shab- 
by schooners,  with  ruddy  and  amber  sails,  lie  at 
anchor  or  drop  down  the  river  with  the  tide, 
bearing  the  simple  sailormen  of  Mr.  W.  W. 
Jacobs 's  stories.  In  the  old  days  before  the  rail- 
way it  was  a  considerable  port  and  a  town  of 
thriving  commerce.  But  now — well,  it  is  little 
heard  of  in  the  annals  of  the  world. 

Yet  Woodbridge,  unknown  to  the  tourist,  has 
had  her  pilgrims,  too,  and  her  nook  in  literature. 
It  was  there  that  George  Crabbe  of  Aldeburgh 
was  apprenticed  to  a  local  surgeon  and  wrote 
his  first  poem,  unhappily  entitled  "Inebriety." 
There  lived  Bernard  Barton,  "the  Quaker  poet," 
a  versifier  of  a  very  mild  sort,  but  immortal  by 
reason  of  his  friendships  with  greater  men. 
Addressed  to  Bernard  Barton,  in  a  plain,  neat 
hand,  came  scores  of  letters  to  Woodbridge  in  the 
eighteen- twenties,  letters  now  famous,  which 


SHANDYGAFF 

• 

found  their  way  up  Church  Street  to  Alexander's 
Bank.  They  were  from  no  less  a  man  than  Charles 
Lamb.  Also  I  have  always  thought  it  very  much 
to  Woodbridge 's  credit  that  a  certain  Wood- 
bridgian  named  Pulham  was  a  fellow-clerk  of 
Lamb's  at  the  East  India  House.  Perhaps  Mr. 
Pulham  introduced  Lamb  and  Barton  to  each 
other.  And  as  birthplace  and  home  of  Edward 
FitzGerald,  Woodbridge  drew  such  visitors  as 
Carlyle  and  Tennyson,  who  came  to  seek  out  the 
immortal  recluse.  In  the  years  following  Fitz- 
Gerald 's  death  many  a  student  of  books,  some  all 
the  way  from  America,  found  his  way  into  John 
Loder's  shop  to  gossip  about  "Old  Fitz."  In 
1893  a  few  devoted  members  of  the  Omar  Khay- 
yam Club  of  London  pilgrimaged  to  Woodbridge 
to  plant  by  the  grave  at  Boulge  (please  pronounce 
"Bowidge")  a  rosetree  that  had  been  raised  from 
seed  brought  from  the  bush  that  sheds  its  petals 
over  the  dust  of  the  tent-maker  at  Naishapur. 
In  1909  Woodbridge  and  Ipswich  celebrated  the 
FitzGerald  centennial.  And  Rupert  Brooke's 
father  was  (I  believe)  a  schoolboy  at  Woodbridge; 
alas  that  another  of  England's  jewels  just  missed 
being  a  Woodbridgian ! 

Some  day,  if  you  are  wise,  you,  too,  will  take  a 
train  at  Liverpool  Street,  and  drawn  by  one  of 
those  delightful  blue  locomotives  of  the  Great 


SHANDYGAFF  249 

Eastern  Railway  speed  through  Colchester  and 
Ipswich  and  finally  set  foot  on  the  yellow-pebbled 
platform  at  Woodbridge.  As  you  step  from  the 
stuffy  compartment  the  keen  salt  Deben  air  will 
tingle  in  your  nostrils;  and  you  may  discover  in 
it  a  faint  under-whiff  of  strong  tobacco — the 
undying  scent  of  pipes  smoked  on  the  river  wall 
by  old  Fitz,  and  in  recent  years  by  John  Loder 
himself.  If  you  have  your  bicycle  with  you,  or 
are  content  to  hire  one,  you  will  find  that  rolling 
Suffolk  country  the  most  delightful  in  the  world 
for  quiet  spinning.  (But  carry  a  repair  kit,  for 
there  are  many  flints!)  Ipswich  itself  is  full  of 
memories — of  Chaucer,  and  Wolsey,  and  Dickens 
(it  is  the  "Eatanswill"  of  Pickwick),  and  it  is 
much  pleasure  to  one  of  Suffolk  blood  to  recall 
that  James  Harper,  the  grandfather  of  the  four 
brothers  who  founded  the  great  publishing  house 
of  Harper  and  Brothers  a  century  ago,  was  an 
Ipswich  man,  born  there  in  1740.  You  will  bike 
to  Bury  St.  Edmunds  (where  Fitz  went  to  school, 
and  our  beloved  William  McFee  also!)  and  Aide- 
burgh,  and  Dunwich,  to  hear  the  chimes  of  the  sea- 
drowned  abbey  ringing  under  the  waves.  If  you 
are  a  Stevensonian,  you  will  hunt  out  Cockfield 
Rectory,  near  Sudbury,  where  R.  L.  S.  first  met 
Sidney  Colvin  in  1872.  (Colvin  himself  came 
from  Bealings,  only  two  miles  from  Woodbridge.) 


250  SHANDYGAFF 

You  may  ride  to  Dunmow  in  Essex,  to  see  the 
country  of  Mr.  Britling;  and  to  Wigborough,  near 
Colchester,  the  haunt  of  Mr.  McFee's  painter- 
cousin  in  "Aliens."  You  will  hire  a  sailboat  at 
Lime  Kiln  Quay  or  the  Jetty  and  bide  a  moving 
air  and  a  going  tide  to  drop  down  to  Bawdsey 
ferry  to  hunt  shark's  teeth  and  amber  among  the 
shingle.  You  will  pace  the  river  walk  to  Kyson 
—perhaps  the  tide  will  be  out  and  sunset  tints 
shimmer  over  those  glossy  stretches  of  mud. 
Brown  seaweed,  vivid  green  samphire,  purple 
flats  of  slime  where  the  river  ran  a  few  hours 
before,  a  steel-gray  trickle  of  water  in  the  scour 
of  the  channel  and  a  group  of  stately  swans  ruf- 
fling there;  and  the  huddled  red  roofs  of  the  town 
with  the  stately  church  tower  and  the  waving 
arms  of  the  windmill  looking  down  from  the  hill. 
It  is  a  scene  to  ravish  an  artist.  You  may  walk 
back  by  way  of  Martlesham  Heath,  stopping  at 
the  Red  Lion  for  a  quencher  (the  Red  Lion 
figurehead  is  supposed  to  have  come  from  one  of 
the  ships  of  the  Armada).  It  is  a  different  kind 
of  Armada  that  Woodbridge  has  to  reckon  with 
nowadays.  Zeppelins.  One  dropped  a  bomb — • 
a  "dud"  it  was — in  John  Loder's  garden;  the  old 
man  had  to  be  restrained  from  running  out  to  seize 
it  with  his  own  hands. 

John  Loder  was  born  in  Woodbridge,  August  3, 


SHANDYGAFF  251 

1825.  His  grandfather,  Robert  Loder,  founded 
the  family  bookselling  and  printing  business,  which 
continues  to-day  at  the  old  shop  on  the  Thorough- 
fare under  John  Loder's  son,  Morton  Loder.  In 
the  days  before  the  railway  came  through,  Wood- 
bridge  was  the  commercial  centre  for  a  large  sec- 
tion of  East  Suffolk;  it  was  a  busy  port,  and  the 
quays  were  crowded  with  shipping.  But  when 
transportation  by  rail  became  swift  and  cheap 
and  the  provinces  began  to  deal  with  London  mer- 
chants, the  little  town's  prosperity  suffered  a  sad 
decline.  Many  of  the  old  Woodbridge  shops,  of 
several  generations'  standing,  have  had  to  yield 
to  local  branches  of  the  great  London  "stores." 
In  John  Loder's  boyhood  the  book  business  was 
at  its  best.  Woodbridgians  were  great  readers, 
and  such  prodigal  customers  as  FitzGerald  did 
much  to  keep  the  .ledgers  healthy.  John  left 
school  at  thirteen  or  so,  to  learn  the  trade,  and  be- 
came the  traditional  printer's  devil.  He  remem- 
bered Bernard  Barton,  the  quiet,  genial,  brown- 
eyed  poet,  coming  down  the  street  from  Alexan- 
der's Bank  (where  he  was.  employed  for  forty 
years)  with  a  large  pile  of  banknotes  to  be  re- 
numbered. The  poet  sat  perched  on  a  high  stool 
watching  young  Loder  and  his  superior  do  the 
work.  And  at  noon  Mr.  Barton  sent  out  to  the 
Royal  Oak  Tavern  near  by  for  a  basket  of  buns 


SHANDYGAFF 

and  a  jug  of  stout  to  refresh  printer  and  devil  at 
their  work. 

Bernard  Barton  died  in  1849,  and  was  laid  to 
rest  in  the  little  Friends'  burying  ground  in  Turn 
Lane.  That  quiet  acre  will  repay  the  visitor's 
half-hour  tribute  to  old  mortality.  My  grand- 
mother was  buried  there,  one  snowy  day  in 
January,  1912,  and  I  remember  how  old  John 
Loder  came  forward  to  the  grave,  bareheaded  and 
leaning  on  his  stick,  to  drop  a  bunch  of  fresh 
violets  on  the  coffin. 

Many  a  time  I  have  sat  in  the  quiet,  walled-in 
garden  of  Burkitt  House — that  sweet  plot  of 
colour  and  fragrance  so  pleasantly  commemorated 
by  Mr.  Mosher  in  his  preface  to  "  In  Praise  of  Old 
Gardens" — and  heard  dear  old  John  Loder  tell 
stories  of  his  youth.  I  remember  the  verse  of 
Herrick  he  used  to  repeat,  pointing  round  his  little 
retreat  with  a  well-stained  pipestem: 

Bu^walk'st  about  thine  own  dear  bounds, 
Not  envying  others'  larger  grounds : 
For  well  thou  know'st,  'tis  not  th'  extent 
Of  land  makes  life,  but  sweet  content. 

Loder's  memory  used  to  go  back  to  times  that 
seem  almost  fabulous  now.  He  had  known  quite 
well  an  English  soldier  who  was  on  guard  over 
Boney  at  St.  Helena — in  fact,  he  once  published  in 
some  newspaper  this  man's  observations  upon  the 


SHANDYGAFF  253 

fallen  emperor,  but  I  have  not  been  able  to 
trace  the  piece.  He  had  been  in  Paris  before  the 
troubles  of  '48.  I  believe  he  served  some  sort  of 
bookselling  apprenticeship  on  Paternoster  Row; 
at  any  rate,  he  used  to  be  in  touch  with  the  London 
book  trade  as  a  young  man,  and  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Bernard  Quaritch,  one  of  the  world's 
most  famous  booksellers.  I  remember  his  lament- 
ing that  FitzGerald  had  not  dumped  the  two 
hundred  unsold  booklets  of  Omar  upon  his  counter 
instead  of  Quaritch's  in  1859.  The  story  goes  that 
they  were  offered  by  Quaritch  for  a  penny  apiece. 
I  always  used  to  steer  him  onto  the  subject  of 
FitzGerald  sooner  or  later,  and  it  was  interesting 
to  hear  him  tell  how  many  princes  of  the  literary 
world  had  come  to  his  shop  or  had  corresponded 
with  him  owing  to  his  knowledge  of  E.  F.  G. 
Anne  Thackeray  gave  him  a  beautiful  portrait  of 
herself  in  return  for  some  courtesy  he  showed  her. 
Robert  H.  Groome,  the  archdeacon  of  Suffolk,  and 
his  brilliant  son,  Francis  Hindes  Groome,  the 
"Tarno  Rye"  (who  wrote  "Two  Suffolk  Friends" 
and  was  said  by  Watts  Dunton  to  have  known 
far  more  about  the  gipsies  than  Borrow)  were 
among  his  correspondents.*  John  Hay,  Elihu 

*No  lover  of  FitzGerald  can  afford  not  to  own  that  exquisite  tributary  volume 
"Edward  FitzGerald:  An  Aftermath,"  by  Francis  Hindes  Groome,  which  Mr. 
Mosher  published  in  1902.  It  tells  a  great  deal  about  Woodbridge,  and  is  annotated 
by  John  Loder.  Mr.  Mosher  was  eager  to  include  Loder's  portrait  in  it,  but  the  old 
nan's  modesty  was  always  as  great  as  his  generosity:  be  would  not  consent. 


254  SHANDYGAFF 

Vedder,  Aldis  Wright,  Canon  Ainger,  Thomas  B. 
Mosher,  Clement  Shorter,  Dewitt  Miller,  Edward 
Clodd,  Leon  Vincent — such  men  as  these  wrote  or 
came  to  John  Loder  when  they  wanted  special  news 
about  FitzGerald.  FitzGerald  had  given  him  a 
great  many  curios  and  personal  treasures:  Mr. 
Loder  never  offered  these  for  sale  at  any  price 
(anything  connected  with  FitzGerald  was  sacred 
to  him)  but  if  any  one  happened  along  who  seemed 
able  to  appreciate  them  he  would  give  them  away 
with  delight.  He  gave  to  me  FitzGerald's  old 
musical  scrapbook,  which  he  had  treasured  for  over 
thirty  years.  This  scrapbook,  in  perfect  condi- 
tion, contains  very  beautiful  engravings,  prints, 
and  drawings  of  the  famous  composers,  musicians, 
and  operatic  stars  of  whom  Fitz  was  enivre  as  a 
young  man.  Among  them  are  a  great  many 
drawings  of  Handel;  FitzGerald,  like  Samuel 
Butler,  was  an  enthusiastic  Handelian.  The  pic- 
tures are  annotated  by  E.  F.  G.  and  there  are  also 
two  drawings  of  Beethoven  traced  by  Thackeray. 
This  scrapbook  was  compiled  by  FitzGerald 
when  he  and  Thackeray  were  living  together  in 
London,  visiting  the  Cave  of  Harmony  and  revel- 
ling in  the  dear  delights  of  young  intellectual 
companionship.  Under  a  drawing  of  the  famous 
Braham,  dated  1831,  Fitz  has  written:  "As  I 
saw  and  heard  him  many  nights  in  the  Pit  of 


SHANDYGAFF  255 

Covent  Garden,  in  company  with  W.  M.  Thack- 
eray, whom  I  was  staying  with  at  the  Bedford 
Coffee  House." 

When  I  tried,  haltingly,  to  express  my  thanks 
for  such  a  gift,  the  old  man  said  "That's  nothing! 
That's  nothing!  It'll  help  to  keep  you  out  of 
mischief.  Much  better  to  give  'em  away  before 
it's  too  late!"  And  he  followed  it  with  Canon 
Ainger's  two  volumes  of  Lamb's  letters,  which 
Ainger  had  given  him. 

Through  his  long  life  John  Loder  lived  quietly 
in  Woodbridge,  eager  and  merry  in  his  shop,  a  great 
reader,  always  delighted  when  any  one  came  in  who 
was  qualified  to  discuss  the  literature  which  inter- 
ested him.  He  and  FitzGerald  had  long  cracks 
together  and  perhaps  Loder  may  have  accom- 
panied the  Woodbridge  Omar  on  some  of  those 
trips  down  the  Deben  on  the  Scandal  or  the 
Meum  and  Tuum  (the  Mum  and  Turn  as  Posh, 
Fitz's  sailing  master,  called  her).  He  played  a 
prominent  part  in  the  life  of  the  town,  became  a 
Justice  of  the  Peace,  and  sat  regularly  on  the 
bench  until  he  was  nearly  ninety.  As  he  entered 
upon  the  years  of  old  age,  came  a  delightful  sur- 
prise. An  old  friend  of  his  in  the  publishing  busi- 
ness, whom  he  had  known  long  before  in  London, 
died  and  left  him  a  handsome  legacy  by  will. 
Thus  his  last  years  were  spared  from  anxiety  and 


256  SHANDYGAFF 

he  was  able  to  continue  his  unobtrusive  and  quiet 
generosities  which  had  always  been  his  secret 
delight. 

Looking  over  the  preceding  paragraphs  I  am 
ashamed  to  see  how  pale  and  mumbling  a  tribute 
they  are  to  this  fine  spirit.  Could  I  but  put  him 
before  you  as  he  was  in  those  last  days !  I  used  to 
go  up  to  Burkitt  House  to  see  him :  in  summer  we 
would  sit  in  the  little  arbour  in  the  garden,  or  in 
winter  by  the  fire  in  his  dining  room.  He  would 
talk  and  I  would  ask  him  questions;  now  and  then 
he  would  get  up  to  pull  down  a  book,  or  to  lead 
me  into  his  bedroom  to  see  some  special  treasure. 
He  used  to  sit  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  very  close  to  the 
fire,  with  his  shoe  laces  untied.  In  summer  he 
would  toddle  about  in  his  shaggy  blue  suit,  with 
a  tweed  cap  over  one  ear,  his  grizzled  beard  and 
moustache  well  stained  by  much  smoking,  his 
eyes  as  bright  and  his  tongue  as  brisk  as  ever. 
Every  warm  morning  would  see  him  down  on  the 
river  wall;  stumping  over  Market  Hill  and  down 
Church  Street  with  his  stout  oak  stick,  hailing 
every  ohild  he  met  on  the  pavement.  His  pocket 
was  generally  full  of  peppermints,  and  the  young- 
sters knew  well  which  pocket  it  was.  His  long 
life  was  a  series  of  original  and  graceful  kindnesses, 
always  to  those  who  needed  them  most  and  had 
no  reason  to  expect  them.  No  recluse  he,  no  fine 


SHANDYGAFF  257 

scholar,  no  polished  litterateur,  but  a  hard- 
headed,  soft-hearted  human  man  of  the  sturdy 
old  Suffolk  breed.  Sometimes  I  think  he  was, 
in  his  own  way,  just  as  great  a  man  as  the  "Old 
Fitz,"  whom  he  loved  and  reverenced. 

He  died  on  November  7,  1917,  aged  ninety -two 
years  three  months  and  four  days.  He  was 
extraordinarily  sturdy  until  nearly  ninety — he 
went  in  bathing  in  the  surf  at  Felixstowe  on  his 
eighty-sixth  birthday.  Perhaps  the  sincerest  trib- 
ute I  can  pay  him  is  these  lines  which  I  copy  from 
my  journal,  dated  July  16,  1913: 

"Went  up  to  have  tea  with  old  John  Loder,  and 
said  a  cunningly  veiled  Good-bye  to  him.  I 
doubt  if  I  shall  see  him  again,  the  dear  old  man. 
I  think  he  felt  so,  too,  for  when  he  came  to  the 
door  with  me,  instead  of  his  usual  remark  about 
'Welcome  the  coming,  speed  the  parting  guest/ 
he  said,  'Farewell  to  thee'  in  a  more  sober  manner 
than  his  wont — and  I  left  with  an  armful  of  books 
which  he  had  given  me  'to  keep  me  out  of  mis- 
chief.' We  had  a  good  talk  after  tea — he  told  me 
about  the  adventures  of  his  brothers,  one  of  whom 
went  out  to  New  Zealand.  He  uses  the  most  de- 
lightful brisk  phrases  in  his  talk,  smiling  away  to 
himself  and  wrinkling  up  his  forehead,  which  can 
only  be  distinguished  from  his  smooth  bald  pate 
by  its  charming  corrugation  of  parallel  furrows.  He 


258  SHANDYGAFF 

took  me  into  his  den  while  he  rummaged  through 
his  books  to  find  some  which  would  be  acceptable 
to  me — '  May  as  well  give  'em  away  before  it's  too 
late,  ye  know' — and  then  he  settled  back  in  his 
easy  chair  to  puff  at  a  pipe.  I  must  note  down 
one  of  his  phrases  which  tickled  me — he  has  such 
a  knack  for  the  proverbial  and  the  epigrammatic. 
'He's  cut  his  cloth,  he  can  wear  his  breeches/ 
he  said  of  a  certain  scapegrace.  He  chuckled  over 
the  Suffolk  phrase  'a  chance  child,'  for  a  bastard 
(alluding  to  one  such  of  his  acquaintance  in  old 
days).  He  constantly  speaks  of  things  he  wants 
to  do  'before  I  tarn  my  toes  up  to  the  daisies.' 
He  told  me  old  tales  of  Woodbridge  in  the  time 
of  the  Napoleonic  wars  when  there  was  a  garrison 
of  5,000  soldiers  quartered  here — this  was  one  of 
the  regions  in  which  an  attack  by  Boney  was 
greatly  feared.  He  says  that  the  Suffolk  phrase 
'rafty  weather'  (meaning  mist  or  fog)  originates 
from  that  time,  as  being  weather  suitable  for  the 
French  to  make  a  surprise  attack  by  rafts  or  flat- 
boats. 

"  He  chuckled  over  the  reminiscence  that  he  was 
once  a  great  hand  at  writing  obituary  notices  for 
the  local  paper.  'Weep,  weep  for  him  who  cried 
for  us,'  was  the  first  line  of  his  epitaph  upon  a 
former  Woodbridge  town  crier!  I  was  thinking 
that  it  would  be  hard  to  do  him  justice  when  the 


SHANDYGAFF  259 

time  comes  to  write  his.  May  he  have  a  swift  and 
painless  end  such  as  his  genial  spirit  deserves, 
and  not  linger  on  into  a  twilight  life  with  failing 
senses.  When  his  memory  and  his  pipe  and  his 
hooks  begin  to  fail  him,  when  those  keen  old  eyes 
grow  dim  and  he  can  no  longer  go  to  sniff  the  salt 
air  on  the  river- wall — then  may  the  quick  and 
quiet  ferryman  take  dear  old  John  Loder  to  the 
shadow  land." 


A  VENTURE  IN  MYSTICISM 

I    HAD    heard    so    much    about    this   Rabbi 
Tagore  and    his   message   of    calm  for  our 
hustling,    feverish    life,    that    I    thought    I 
would  try  to  put  some  of  that  stuff  into  practice. 

"Shut  out  the  clamour  of  small  things.  With- 
draw into  the  deep  quiet  of  your  soul,  commune 
with  infinite  beauty  and  infinite  peace.  You  must 
be  full  of  gladness  and  love  for  every  person  and 
every  tiniest  thing.  Great  activity  and  worry  is 
needless — it  is  poison  to  the  soul.  Learn  to  reflect, 
and  to  brood  upon  eternal  beauty.  It  is  the 
mystic  who  finds  all  that  is  most  precious  in  life. 
The  flowers  of  meditation  blossom  in  his  heart." 
I  cut  out  these  words  and  pasted  them  in  my 
hat.  I  have  always  felt  that  my  real  genius  lies 
in  the  direction  of  philosophic  calm.  I  deter- 
mined to  override  the  brutal  clamour  of  petty 
things. 

The  alarm  clock  rang  as  usual  at  6.30.  Calm- 
ly, with  nothing  but  lovely  thoughts  in  my  mind, 
I  threw  it  out  of  the  window.  I  lay  until  eight 
o'clock,  communing  with  infinite  peace.  I  began 
to  see  that  Professor  Tagore  was  right.  My 

260 


SHANDYGAFF  261 

wife  asked  me  if  I  was  going  to  the  office.  "I  am 
brooding  upon  eternal  beauty,"  I  told  her. 

She  thought  I  was  ill,  and  made  me  take  break- 
fast in  bed. 

I  usually  shave  every  morning,  but  a  moment's 
thought  will  convince  you  that  mystics  do  not  do 
so.  I  determined  to  grow  a  beard.  I  lit  a  cigar, 
and  replied  "I  am  a  mystic"  to  all  my  wife's 
inquiries. 

At  nine  o'clock  came  a  telephone  call  from  the 
office.  My  employer  is  not  a  devotee  of  eternal 
calm,  I  fear.  When  I  explained  that  I  was  at 
home  reading  "Gitanjali,"  his  language  was  far 
from  mystical.  "Get  here  by  ten  o'clock  or  you 
lose  your  job,"  he  said. 

I  was  dismayed  to  see  the  same  old  throng 
in  the  subway,  all  the  senseless  scuffle  and  the 
unphilosophic  crowd.  But  I  felt  full  of  gladness  in 
my  new  way  of  life,  full  of  brotherhood  for  all  the 
world.  "I  love  you,"  I  said  to  the  guard  on  the 
platform.  He  seized  me  by  the  shoulders  and 
rammed  me  into  the  crowded  car,  shouting 
"Another  nut!" 

When  I  reached  the  office  my  desk  was  littered 
with  a  hundred  papers.  The  stenographer  was 
at  the  telephone,  trying  to  pacify  someone. 
"Here  he  is  now,"  I  heard  her  say. 

It  was  Dennis  &  Company  on  the  wire. 


262  SHANDYGAFF 

"How  about  that  carload  of  Bavarian  herrings 
we  were  to  have  yesterday  without  fail?"  said 
Dennis. 

I  took  the  'phone. 

"In  God's  good  time,"  I  said,  "the  shipment 
will  arrive.  The  matter  is  purely  ephemeral, 
after  all.  If  you  will  .attune  yourself " 

He  rang  off. 

I  turned  over  the  papers  on  my  desk.  Looked 
at  with  the  unclouded  eye  of  a  mystic,  how  mun- 
dane and  unnecessary  all  these  pettifogging  trans- 
actions seemed.  Two  kegs  of  salt  halibut  for  the 
Cameron  Stores,  proofs  of  the  weekly  ad.  for 
the  Fishmongers9  Journal,  a  telegram  from  the 
Uptown  Fish  Morgue,  new  tires  needed  for  one 
of  the  delivery  trucks — how  could  I  jeopardize  my 
faculty  of  meditation  by  worrying  over  these 
trifles?  I  leaned  back  in  my  chair  and  devoted 
myself  to  meditation.  After  all,  the  harassing 
domination  of  material  things  can  easily  be 
thrown  off  by  a  resolute  soul.  I  was  full  of  in- 
finite peace.  I  seemed  to  see  the  future  as  an 
ever- widening  vista  of  sublime  visions.  My  soul 
was  thrilled  with  a  universal  love  of  humanity. 

The  buzzer  on  my  desk  sounded.  That  meant 
that  the  boss  wanted  to  see  me. 

Now,  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  to  put 
one's  self  at  the  beck  and  call  of  another  man  is 


SHANDYGAFF  263 

essentially  degrading.  In  the  long  perspective 
of  eternity,  was  his  soul  any  more  majestic  than 
mine?  In  this  luminous  new  vision  of  my  impor- 
tance as  a  fragment  of  immortal  mind,  could  I, 
should  I,  bow  to  the  force  of  impertinent  triv- 
ialities? 

I  sat  back  in  my  chair,  full  of  love  of  humanity. 

By  and  by  the  boss  appeared  at  my  desk.  One 
look  at  his  face  convinced  me  of  the  truth  of 
Tagore's  saying  that  great  activity  is  poison  to 
the  soul.  Certainly  his  face  was  poisonous. 

"Say,"  he  shouted,  "what  the  devil's  the  matter 
with  you  to-day?  Dennis  just  called  me  up  about 
that  herring  order— 

"Master,"  I  said  mildly,  "be  not  overwrought. 
Great  activity  is  a  strychnine  to  the  soul.  I  am 
a  mystic. 

A  little  later  I  found  myself  on  the  street  with 
two  weeks'  pay  in  my  pocket.  It  is  true  that  my 
departure  had  been  hasty  and  unpleasant,  for  the 
stairway  from  the  office  to  the  street  is  long  and 
dusty;  but  I  recalled  what  Professor  Tagore  had 
said  about  vicissitudes  being  the  true  revealers  of 
the  spirit.  My  hat  was  not  with  me,  but  I 
remembered  the  creed  pasted  in  it.  After  pacing 
a  block  or  so,  my  soul  was  once  more  tranquil. 

I  entered  a  restaurant.  It  was  the  noon  hour, 
and  the  room  was  crowded  with  hurrying  waiters 


264  SHANDYGAFF 

and  impatient  people.  I  found  a  vacant  seat  in  a 
corner  and  sat  down.  I  concentrated  my  mind 
upon  the  majestic  vision  of  the  brotherhood  of 
man. 

Gradually  I  began  to  feel  hungry,  but  no  waiter 
came  near  me.  Never  mind,  I  thought:  to  shout 
and  hammer  the  table  as  the  others  do  is  beneath 
the  dignity  of  a  philosopher.  I  began  to  dream  of 
endless  vistas  of  mystical  ham  and  eggs.  I  brood- 
ed upon  these  for  some  time,  but  still  no  corporeal 
and  physical  units  of  food  reached  me. 

The  man  next  me  gradually  materialized  into 
my  consciousness.  Full  of  love  for  humanity  I 
spoke  to  him. 

"Brother,"  I  said,  "until  one  of  these  priestly 
waiters  draws  nigh,  will  you  not  permit  me  to  sus- 
tain myself  with  one  of  your  rolls  and  one  of  yom 
butter-balls?  In  the  great  brotherhood  of  hu- 
manity, all  that  is  mine  is  yours;  and  per  contra, 
all  that  is  yours  is  mine."  Beaming  luminously 
upon  him,  I  laid  a  friendly  hand  on  his  arm. 

He  leaped  up  and  called  the  head  waiter. 
"Here's  an  attic  for  rent!"  he  cried  coarsely. 
"He  wants  to  pick  my  pocket." 

By  the  time  I  got  away  from  the  police  station 
it  was  dusk,  and  I  felt  ready  for  home.  I  must 
say  my  broodings  upon  eternal  beauty  were 
beginning  to  be  a  little  forced.  As  I  passed  along 


SHANDYGAFF  265 

the  crowded  street,  walking  slowly  and  with- 
drawn into  the  quiet  of  my  soul,  three  people 
trod  upon  my  heels  and  a  taxi  nearly  gave  me  a 
passport  to  eternity.  I  reflected  that  men  were 
perhaps  not  yet  ready  for  these  doctrines  of  infinite 
peace.  How  much  more  wise  were  the  animals 
- — and  I  raised  my  hand  to  stroke  a  huge  dray- 
horse  by  the  pavement.  He  seized  my  fingers 
in  his  teeth  and  nipped  them  vigorously. 

I  gave  a  yell  and  ran  full  tilt  to  the  nearest  sub- 
way entrance.  I  burst  into  the  mass  of  struggling, 
unphilosophic  humanity  and  fought,  shoved, 
cursed,  and  buffeted  with  them.  I  pushed  three 
old  ladies  to  one  side  to  snatch  my  ticket  before 
they  could  get  theirs.  I  leaped  into  the  car  at 
the  head  of  a  flying  wedge  of  sinful,  unmystical 
men,  who  knew  nothing  of  infinite  beauty  and 
peace.  As  the  door  closed  I  pushed  a  decrepit 
clergyman  outside,  and  I  hope  he  fell  on  the  third 
rail.  As  I  felt  the  lurching,  trampling,  throttling 
jam  of  humanity  sway  to  and  fro  with  the  motion 
of  the  car,  I  drew  a  long  breath.  Dare  I  confess 
it? — I  was  perfectly  happy! 


AN  OXFORD  LANDLADY 

IT  WAS  a  crisp  October  afternoon,  and  along 
Iffley  Road    the  wind    was    chivvying    the 
yellow   leaves.      We   stood   at  the   window 
watching  the  flappers  opposite  play  hockey.     One 
of  them  had  a  scarlet  tam-o'-shanter  and  glorious 
dark  hair  underneath  it.     .     .     .A  quiet  tap  at 
the  door,  gentle  but  definite,  and  in  came  Mrs. 
Beesley. 

If  you  have  been  at  our  digs,  you  know  her  by 
sight,  and  have  not  forgotten.  Hewn  of  the  real 
imperial  marble  is  she,  not  unlike  Queen  Victoria 
in  shape  and  stature.  She  tells  us  she  used  to 
dance  featly  and  with  abandon  in  days  gone  by, 
when  her  girlish  slimness  was  the  admiration 
of  every  greengrocer's  assistant  in  Oxford — and 
even  in  later  days  when  she  and  Dr.  Warren 
always  opened  the  Magdalen  servants'  ball  to- 
gether. She  and  the  courtly  President  were  al- 
ways the  star  couple.  I  can  see  her  doing  the  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley.  But  the  virgin  zone  was 
loosed  long  ago,  and  she  has  expanded  with  the 
British  Empire.  Not  rotund,  but  rather  impos- 
ingly cubic.  Our  hallway  is  a  very  narrow  one, 

266 


SHANDYGAFF  267 

and  when  you  come  to  visit  us  of  an  evening, 
after  red-cheeked  Emily  has  gone  off  to  better 
tilting  grounds,  it  is  a  prime  delight  to  see  Mrs. 
Beesley  backing  down  the  passage  (like  a  stately 
canal  boat)  before  the  advancing  guest.  Very 
large  of  head  and  very  pink  of  cheek,  very  fond  of 
a  brisk  conversation,  some  skill  at  cooking,  slow 
and  full  of  dignity  on  the  stairs,  much  reminiscent 
of  former  lodgers,  bold  as  a  lion  when  she  thinks 
she  is  imposed  upon,  but  other  whiles  humorous 
and  placable — such  is  our  Mrs.  Beesley. 

She  saw  us  standing  by  the  window,  and  thought 
we  were  watching  the  leaves  twisting  up  the  road- 
way in  golden  spirals. 

"Watching  the  wind?"  she  said  pleasantly. 
"I  loves  to  see  the  leaves  'avin'  a  frolic.  They  en- 
joys it,  same  as  young  gentlemen  do." 

"Or  young  ladies?"  I  suggested.  "We  were 
watching  the  flappers  play  hockey,  Mrs.  Beesley. 
One  of  them  is  a  most  fascinating  creature.  I 
think  her  name  must  be  Kathleen.  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Beesley  chuckled  merrily  and  threw  up  her 
head  in  that  delightful  way  of  hers.  "  Oh,  dear,  Oh, 
dear,  you're  just  like  all  the  other  gentlemen,"  she 
said.  "Always  fiwatchin'  and  awaitin'  for  the 
young  ladies.  Mr.  Bye  that  used  to  be  'ere  was 
just  the  same,  an'  he  was  engaged  to  be  marrit. 
'Ad  some  of  'em  in  to  tea  once,  he  did.  I  thought 


268  SHANDYGAFF 

it  was  scandalous,  and  'im  almost  a  marrit  gentle- 
man." 

"Don't  you  remember  what  the  poet  says,  Mrs. 
Beesley?"  I  suggested: 

"Beauty  must  be  scorned  in  none 
Though  but  truly  served  in  one." 

"Not  much  danger  of  you  gentlemen  bein'  too 
scornful,"  said  Mrs.  Beesley.  Her  eyes  began  to 
sparkle  now  that  she  saw  herself  fairly  embarked 
upon  a  promising  conversation.  She  sidled  a 
little  farther  into  the  room.  Lloyd  winked  at  me 
and  quietly  escaped  behind  her. 

"Seeing  as  we're  alone,"  said  Mrs.  Beesley, 
"I  come  to  you  to  see  about  dinner  to-night.  I 
knows  as  you're  the  father  of  'em  all."  (That 
is  her  quaint  way  of  saying  that  she  thinks  me  the 
leading  spirit  of  the  three  who  dig  with  her.) 
"How  about  a  little  jugged  'are?  Nice  little  'ares 
there  are  in  Cowley  Road  now.  I  thinks  'are  is 
very  tender  an'  tasty.  That,  an'  a  nice  'ot  cup 
o'tea?' 

The  last  'are  had  been,  in  Tennyson's  phrase, 
"the  heir  of  all  the  ages,"  so  I  deprecated  the  sug- 
gestion. "I  don't  think  hare  agrees  with  Mr. 
Williams,"  I  said. 

"'Ow  about  a  pheasant?"  said  Mrs.  Beesley, 
stroking  the  corner  of  the  table  with  her  hand  as 


SHANDYGAFF  269 

she  always  does  when  in  deep  thought.  "A 
pheasant  and  a  Welsh  rabbit,  not  too  peppery. 
That  goes  well  with  the  cider.  Dr.  Warren  came 
'ere  to  dinner  once,  an'  he  had  a  Welsh  rabbit 
and  never  forgot  it.  'E  allus  used  to  say  when  'e 
saw  me,  "Ow  about  that  Welsh  rabbit,  Mrs. 
Beesley  ? '  Oh,  dear,  Oh,  dear,  'e  is  a  kind  gentleman ! 
'E  gave  us  a  book  once — "Istory  of  Magdalen 
College.'  I  think  he  wrote  it  'imself." 

"I  think  a  pheasant  would  be  very  nice,"  I 
said,  and  began  looking  for  a  book. 

"Do  you  think  Mr.  Loomis  will  be  back  from 
town  in  time  for  dinner?"  asked  Mrs.  Beesley. 
"I  know  Vs  fond  o'  pheasant.  He'd  come  if  he 
knew." 

"  We  might  send  him  a  telegram,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  dear,  Oh,  dear!"  sighed  Mrs.  Beesley,  over- 
come by  such  a  fantastic  thought.  "You  know, 
Mr.  Morley,  a  funny  thing  'appened  this  morn- 
ing," she  said.  "Em'ly  and  I  were  making  Mr. 
Loomis 's  bed.  But  we  didn't  find  'is  clothes  all 
lyin'  about  the  floor  same  as  'e  usually  does. 
'I  wonder  what's  'appened  to  Mr.  Loomis's 
clothes?'  said  Em'ly. 

"  'P'raps  Vs  took  'em  up  to  town  to  pawn  'em.' 
I  said.  (You  know  we  'ad  a  gent'man  'ere  once 
that  pawned  nearly  all  'is  things — a  Jesus  gentle- 
man 'e  was.) 


270  SHANDYGAFF 

"Em'ly  says  to  me,  'I  wonder  what  the  three 
balls  on  a  pawnbroker's  sign  mean?' 

"'Why  don't   you   know,  Em'ly?'  I  says.     It 
means  it's  two  to  one  you  never  gets  'em  back." 

Just  then  there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell  and  Mrs. 
Beesley  rolled  away  chuckling.     And  I  returned 
to  the  window  to  watch  Kathleen  play  hockey. 
October,  1912. 


<j  PEACOCK  PIE" 

ONCE  a  year  or  so  one  is  permitted  to  find 
some  book  which  brings  a  real  tingle  to 
that  ribbon  of  the  spinal  marrow  which 
responds  to  the  vibrations  of  literature.  Not  a 
bad  way  to  calendar  the  years  is  by  the  really  good 
books  they  bring  one.  Each  twelve  month  the 
gnomon  on  the  literary  sundial  is  likely  to  cast 
some  shadow  one  will  not  willingly  forget.  Thus 
I  mark  1916  as  the  year  that  introduced  me  to 
William  McFee's  "Casuals  of  the  Sea"  and  But- 
ler's "Way  of  All  Flesh";  1915  most  of  us  remem- 
ber as  Rupert  Brooke's  year,  or  the  year  of  the 
Spoon  River  Anthology,  if  you  prefer  that  kind 
of  thing;  1914  I  notch  as  the  season  when  I  first 
got  the  hang  of  Bourget  and  Conrad.  But  per- 
haps best  of  all,  in  1913  I  read  "Peacock  Pie" 
and  "Songs  of  Childhood,"  by  Walter  de  la 
Mare. 

"Peacock  Pie"  having  now  been  published  in 
this  country  it  is  seasonable  to  kindle  an  altar 
fire  for  this  most  fanciful  and  delightful  of 
present-day  poets.  It  is  curious  that  his  work 
is  so  little  known  over  here,  for  his  first  book^ 

271 


272  SHANDYGAFF 

"Songs  of  Childhood,"  was  published  in  England 
in  1902.  Besides,  poetry  he  has  written  novels 
and  essays,  all  shot  through  with  a  phospho- 
rescent sparkle  of  imagination  and  charm.  He  has 
the  knack  of  "words  set  in  delightful  proportion"; 
and  "Peacock  Pie"  is  the  most  authentic  knap- 
sack of  fairy  gold  since  the  "Child's  Garden  of 
Verses." 

I  am  tempted  to  think  that  Mr.  de  la  Mare  is  the 
kind  of  poet  more  likely  to  grow  in  England  than 
America.  The  gracious  and  fine-spun  fabric  of 
his  verse,  so  delicate  in  music,  so  quaint  and 
haunting  in  imaginative  simplicity,  is  the  gift  of 
a  land  and  life  where  rewards  and  fairies  are  not 
wholly  passed  away.  Emily  Dickinson  and  Va- 
chel  Lindsay  are  among  our  contributors  to  the 
songs  of  gramarye:  but  one  has  only  to  open 
"The  Congo"  side  by  side  with  "Peacock  Pie"  to 
see  how  the  seductions  of  ragtime  and  the  clash- 
ing crockery  of  the  Poetry  Society's  dinners  are 
coarsening  the  fibres  of  Mr.  Lindsay's  marvellous 
talent  as  compared  with  the  dainty  horns  of 
elfin  that  echo  in  Mr.  de  la  Mare.  And  it  is  a 
long  Pullman  ride  from  Spoon  River  to  the  bee- 
droned  gardens  where  De  la  Mare's  old  women 
sit  and  sew.  Over  here  we  have  to  wait  for 
Barrie  or  Yeats  or  Padraic  Colum  to  tell  us  about 
the  fairies,  and  Cecil  Sharp  to  drill  us  in  their 


SHANDYGAFF  273 

dances  and  songs.  The  gentry  are  not  native  in 
our  hearts,  and  we  might  as  well  admit  it. 

To  say  that  Mr.  de  la  Mare's  verse  is  distilled 
in  fairyland  suggests  perhaps  a  delicate  and 
absent-minded  figure,  at  a  loss  in  the  hurly  burly 
of  this  world;  the  kind  of  poet  who  loses  his  rub- 
bers in  the  subway,  drops  his  glasses  in  the  trolley 
car,  and  is  found  wandering  blithely  in  Central 
Park  while  the  Women's  Athenaeum  of  the 
Tenderloin  is  waiting  four  hundred  strong  for  him 
to  lecture.  But  Mr.  de  la  Mare  is  the  more 
modern  figure  who  might  readily  (I  hope  I  speak 
without  offense)  be  mistaken  for  a  New  York 
stock  broker,  or  a  member  of  the  Boston  Chamber 
of  Commerce.  Perhaps  he  even  belongs  to  the 
newer  order  of  poets  who  do  not  wear  rubbers. 

One's  first  thought  (if  one  begins  at  the  begin- 
ning, but  who  reads  a  book  of  poetry  that  way?) 
is  that  "Peacock  Pie"  is  a  collection  of  poems  for 
children.  But  it  is  not  that,  any  more  than  "The 
Masses"  is  a  paper  for  the  proletariat.  Before 
you  have  gone  very  far  you  will  find  that  the 
imaginary  child  you  set  out  with  has  been  mag- 
icked  into  a  changeling.  The  wee  folk  have  been 
at  work  and  bewitched  the  pudding — the  pie  rather. 
The  fire  dies  on  the  hearth,  the  candle  channels  in 
its  socket,  but  still  you  read  on.  Some  of  the 
poems  bring  you  the  cauld  grue  of  Thrawn  JaneL 


274  SHANDYGAFF 

When  at  last  you  go  up  to  bed,  it  will  be  with 
the  shuddering  sigh  of  one  thrilled  through  and 
through  with  the  sad  little  beauties  of  the  world. 
You  will  want  to  put  out  a  bowl  of  fresh  milk  on 
the  doorstep  to  appease  the  banshee — did  you 
not  know  that  the  janitor  of  your  Belshazzar 
Court  would  get  it  in  the  morning. 

One  of  the  secrets  of  Mr.  de  la  Mare's  singular 
charm  is  his  utter  simplicity,  linked  with  a  deli- 
cately tripping  music  that  intrigues  the  memory 
unawares  and  plays  high  jinks  with  you  forever 
after.  Who  can  read  "Off  the  Ground"  and  not 
strum  the  dainty  jig  over  and  over  in  his  head 
whenever  he  takes  a  bath,  whenever  he  shaves, 
whenever  the  moon  is  young?  I  challenge  you  to 
resist  the  jolly  madness  of  its  infection: 

Three  jolly  Farmers 

Once  bet  a  pound 

Each  dance  the  others  would 

Off  the  ground. 

Out  of  their  coats 

They  slipped  right  soon, 

And  neat  and  nicesome, 

Put  each  his  shoon. 

One— Two— Three—  ' 

And  away  they  go, 

Not  too  fast, 

And  not  too  slow; 

Out  from  the  elm-tree's 


SHANDYGAFF  275 

Noonday  shadow, 

Into  the  sun 

And  across  the  meadow. 

Past  the  schoolroom, 

With  knees  well  bent 

Fingers  a-flicking, 

They  dancing  went.     .     .     . 

Are  you  not  already  out  of  breath  in  the  hilarious 
escapade? 

The  sensible  man's  quarrel  with  the  proponents 
of  free  verse  is  not  that  they  write  such  good  prose; 
not  that  they  espouse  the  natural  rhythms  of  the 
rain,  the  brook,  the  wind-grieved  tree;  this  is  all  to 
the  best,  even  if  as  old  as  Solomon.     It  is  that 
they  affect  to  disdain  the  superlative  harmonies  of 
artificed  and  ordered  rhythms;  that  knowing  not 
a  spondee  from  a  tribrach  they  vapour  about' pro- 
sody, of  which  they  know  nothing,  and  imagine  to 
be   new   what   antedates    the   Upanishads.     The 
haunting  beauty  of  Mr.  de  la  Mare's  delicate  art 
springs  from  an  ear  of  superlative  tenderness  and 
sophistication.     The  daintiest  alternation  of  iam- 
bus and  trochee  is  joined  to  the  serpent's  cunning 
in  swiftly  tripping  dactyls.     Probably   this    arti- 
fice is  greatly  unconscious,  the  meed  of  the  trained 
musician;  but  let  no  singer  think  to  upraise  his 
voice  before  the  Lord  ere  he  master  the  axioms 
of  prosody.     Imagist  journals  please  copy. 


276  SHANDYGAFF 

V 

One  may  well  despair  of  conveying  in  a  few 
rough  paragraphs  the  gist  of  this  quaint,  fanciful, 
brooding  charm.  There  is  something  fey  about 
much  of  the  book :  it  peers  behind  the  curtains  of 
twilight  and  sees  strange  things.  In  its  love  of 
children,  its  inspired  simplicity,  its  sparkle  of  whim 
and  ^Esopian  brevity,  I  know  nothing  finer.  Let 
me  just  cut  for  you  one  more  slice  of  this  rarely 
seasoned  pastry. 

THE  LITTLE  BIRD 

My  dear  Dacldie  bought  a  mansion 

For  to  bring  my  Mammie  to, 
In  a  hat  with  a  long  feather, 

And  a  trailing  gown  of  blue; 
And  a  company  of  fiddlers 

And  a  rout  of  raaids  and  men 
Danced  the  clock  round  to  the  morning, 

In  a  gay  house-warming  then: 
And  when  all  the  guests  were  gone,  and 

All  was  still  as  still  can  be, 
In  from  the  dark  ivy  hopped  a 

Wee  small  bird :  and  that  was  Me. 

"Peacock  Pie"  is  immortal  diet  indeed,  as  Sir 
Walter  said  of  his  scrip  of  joy.  Annealed  as  we 
are,  I  think  it  will  discompose  the  most  callous. 
It  is  a  sweet  feverfew  for  the  heats  of  the  spirit. 
It  is  full  of  outlets  of  sky. 

As  for  Mr.  de  la  Mare  himself,  he  is  a  modest 


SHANDYGAFF  277 

man  and  keeps  behind  his  songs.  Recently  he 
paid  his  first  visit  to  America,  and  we  may  hope 
that  even  on  Fifth  Avenue  he  saw  some  fairies. 
He  lectured  at  some  of  our  universities  and  en- 
dured the  grotesque  plaudits  of  dowagers  and  pro- 
fessors whp  doubtless  pretended  to  have  read  his 
work.  Although  he  is  forty-four,  and  has  been 
publishing  for  nearly  sixteen  years,  he  has  evaded 
"Who's  Who."  He  lives  in  London,  is  married, 
and  has  four  children.  For  a  number  of  years 
he  worked  for  the  Anglo-American  Oil  Company. 
Truly  the  Muse  sometimes  lends  to  her  favourites 
a  merciful  hardiness. 


THE  LITERARY  PAWNSHOP 

EXCELLENT  Parson  Adams,  in  "Joseph 
Andrews,"  is  not  the  only  literary  man 
who  has  lamented  the  difficulty  of  ran- 
soming a  manuscript  for  immediate  cash.  It  will 
be  remembered  that  Mr.  Adams  had  in  his  sad- 
dlebag nine  volumes  of  sermons  in  manuscript, 
"as  well  worth  a  hundred  pounds  as  a  shilling  was 
worth  twelve  pence."  Offering  one  of  these  as 
a  pledge,  Parson  Adams  besought  Mr.  Tow- 
Wouse,  the  innkeeper,  to  lend  him  three  guineas, 
but  the  latter  had  so  little  stomach  for  a  trans- 
action of  this  sort  that  "he  cried  out,  *  Coming,  sir,' 
though  nobody  called;  and  ran  downstairs  without 
any  fear  of  breaking  his  neck." 

As  a  whimsical  essayist  (with  whom  I  have 
talked  over  these  matters)  puts  it,  the  business  of 
literature  is  imperfectly  coordinated  with  life. 

Almost  any  other  kind  of  property  is  hockable 
for  ready  cash.  A  watch,  a  ring,  an  outworn  suit 
of  clothes,  a  chair,  a  set  of  books,  all  these  will 
find  willing  purchasers.  But  a  manuscript  which 
happens  not  to  meet  the  fancy  of  the  editors  must 
perforce  lie  idle  in  your  drawer  though  it  sparkle 

278 


SHANDYGAFF  279 

with  the  brilliants  of  wit,  and  five  or  ten  years  hence 
collectors  may  list  it  in  their  catalogues.  No 
mount  of  piety  along  Sixth  Avenue  will  accept  it 
in  pawn,  no  Hartford  Lunch  will  exchange  it  for 
corned  beef  hash  and  dropped  egg.  This  is  a  dis- 
mal thing. 

This  means  that  there  is  an  amusing  and  a 
competent  living  to  be  gained  by  a  literary  agent 
of  a  new  kind.  Think  how  many  of  the  most 
famous  writers  have  trod  the  streets  ragged  and 
hungry  in  their  early  days.  There  were  times 
when  they  would  have  sold  their  epics,  their 
novels,  their  essays,  for  the  price  of  a  square  meal. 
Think  of  the  booty  that  would  accumulate  in  the 
shop  of  a  literary  pawnbroker.  The  early  work 
of  famous  men  would  fill  his  safe  to  bursting. 
Later  on  he  might  sell  it  for  a  thousand  times 
what  he  gave.  There  is  nothing  that  grows  to 
such  fictitious  value  as  manuscript. 

Think  of  Francis  Thompson,  when  he  was  a 
bootmaker's  assistant  in  Leicester  Square.  He 
was  even  too  poor  to  buy  writing  materials.  His 
early  poems  were  scribbled  on  scraps  of  old  ac- 
count books  and  wrapping  paper.  How  readily 
he  would  have  sold  them  for  a  few  shillings.  Or 
Edgar  Poe  in  the  despairing  days  of  his  wife's 
illness.  Or  R.  L.  S.  in  the  fits  of  depression 
caused  by  his  helpless  dependence  upon  his  father 


280  SHANDYGAFF 

for  funds.  What  a  splendid  opportunity  these 
crises  in  writers'  lives  would  offer  to  the  enter- 
prising buyer  of  manuscripts! 

Be  it  understood,  of  course,  that  the  pawn- 
broker must  be  himself  an  appreciator  of  good 
things.  No  reason  why  he  should  buy  poor  stuff, 
even  though  the  author  of  it  be  starving. 
Richard  Le  Gallienne  has  spoken  somewhere  of 
the  bookstores  which  sell  "books  that  should  never 
have  been  written  to  the  customers  who  should 
never  have  been  born."  Our  pawnbroker  must 
guard  himself  against  buying  this  kind  of  stuff. 
He  will  be  besieged  with  it.  Very  likely  Mr. 
Le  Gallienne  himself  will  be  the  first  to  offer  him 
some.  But  his  task  will  be  to  discover  new  and 
true  talent  beneath  its  rags,  and  stake  it  to  a  ham 
sandwich  when  that  homely  bite  will  mean  more 
than  a  dinner  at  the  Ritz  ten  years  later. 

The  idea  of  the  literary  pawnbroker  comes  to 
me  from  the  (unpublished)  letters  of  John  Mistle- 
toe, author  of  the  "Dictionary  of  Deplorable 
Facts,"  that  wayward  and  perverse  genius  who 
wandered  the  Third  Avenue  saloons  when  he  might 
have  been  feted  by  the  Authors'  League  had  he 
lived  a  few  years  longer.  Some  day,  I  hope,  the 
full  story  of  that  tragic  life  may  be  told,  and  the 
manuscripts  still  cherished  by  his  executor  made 
public.  In  the  meantime,  this  letter,  which  he 


SHANDYGAFF  281 

wrote  in  1908,  gives  a  sad  and  vivid  little  picture 
of  the  straits  of  unadmitted  genius: 

"I  write  from  Connor's  saloon.  Paunchy  Con- 
nor has  been  my  best — indeed  my  only — friend  in 
this  city,  when  every  editor,  publisher,  and  critic 
has  given  me  the  frozen  mitt.  Of  course  I  know 
why  .  .  .  the  author  of  "Vermin"  deserves 
not,  nor  wants,  their  hypocritical  help.  The 
book  was  too  true  to  life  to  please  the  bourgeois 
and  yet  not  ribald  enough  to  tickle  the  prurient. 
I  had  a  vile  pornographic  publisher  after  me  the 
other  day;  he  said  if  I  would  rub  up  some  of  the 
earlier  chapters  and  inject  a  little  more  spice  he 
thought  he  could  do  something  with  it — as  a 
paper-covered  erotic  for  shop-girls,  I  suppose  he 
meant.  I  kicked  him  downstairs.  The  stinking 
bounder ! 

"Until  to-day  I  had  been  without  grub  for  sixty 
hours.  That  is  literally  true.  I  was  ashamed  of 
sponging  on  Paunchy,  and  could  not  bring  myself 
to  come  back  to  the  saloon  where  he  would  will- 
ingly have  fed  me.  I  did  get  a  job  for  two  days  as 
a  deckhand  on  an  Erie  ferryboat,  but  they  found 
out  I  did  not  belong  to  the  union.  I  had  two 
dollars  in  my  pocket — a  fortune — but  while  I  was 
dozing  on  a  doorstep  on  Hudson  Street,  waiting 
for  the  cafes  to  open  (I  was  too  done  to  walk  half  a 
dozen  blocks  to  an  all-night  restaurant),  some 


282  SHANDYGAFF 

snapper  picked  my  pocket.  That  night  I  slept  in 
a  big  drain  pipe  where  they  were  putting  up  a 
building. 

"Why  isn't  there  a  pawnshop  where  one  could 
hang  up  MSS.  for  cash?  In  my  hallroom  over 
Connor's  saloon  I  have  got  stuff  that  will  be  bid 
for  at  auctions  some  day  (that  isn't  conceit,  I 
know  it),  but  at  this  moment,  July  17,  1908,  I 
couldn't  raise  50  cents  on  it.  If  there  were  a  lit- 
erary mount  of  piety — a  sort  of  Parnassus  of 
piety  as  it  were — the  uncle  in  charge  might  bless 
the  day  he  met  me.  Well,  it  won't  be  for  long. 
This  cancer  is  getting  me  surely. 

"This  morning  I'm  cheerful. "  I've  scrubbed 
and  swept  Paunchy 's  bar  for  him,  and  the  dirty, 
patchouli-smelling  hop- joint  he  keeps  upstairs, 
bless  his  pimping  old  heart.  And  I've  had  a  real 
breakfast:  boiled  red  cabbage,  stewed  beef  (con- 
demned by  the  inspector),  rye  bread,  raw  onions, 
a  glass  of  Tom  and  Jerry,  and  two  big  schooners 
of  the  amber.  I'm  working  on  my  Third  Avenue 
novel  called  The  L.' 

"I  shan't  give  you  my  right  address,  or  you'd 
send  someone  down  here  to  give  me  money, 
you  damned  philanthropist.  .  .  .  Connor  ain't 
the  real  name,  so  there.  When  I  die  (soon)  they'll 
find  Third  Avenue  written  on  my  heart,  if  I  still 
have  one. 


SHANDYGAFF  283 

It  is  interesting  to  recall  that  the  MS.  of  his 
poems  "Pavements,  and  Other  Verses"  was 
bought  by  a  private  collector  for  $250  last  winter. 

Will  not  some  literary  agent  think  over  this 
idea? 


A  MORNING  IN  MARATHON 

ONE  violet  throbbing  star  was  climbing  in 
the  southeast  at  half -past  four,  and  the 
whole  flat  plain  was  rich  with  golden 
moonlight.  Early  rising  in  order  to  quicken  the 
furnace  and  start  the  matinsong  in  the  steampipes 
becomes  its  own  reward  when  such  an  orange  moon 
is  dropping  down  the  sky.  Even  Peg  (our  most 
volatile  Irish  terrier)  was  plainly  awed  by  the 
blaze  of  pale  light,  and  hopped  gingerly  down  the 
rimy  back  steps.  But  the  cat  was  unabashed. 
Cats  are  born  by  moonlight  and  are  leagued  with 
the  powers  of  darkness  and  mystery.  And  so 
Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  (he  is  named  for  the 
daring  poet  of  Illinois)  stepped  into  the  moonshine 
without  a  qualm. 

There  are  certain  little  routine  joys  known 
only  to  the  servantless  suburbanite.  Every  morn- 
ing the  baker  leaves  a  bag  of  crisp  French  rolls 
on  the  front  porch.  Every  morning  the  milk- 
man deposits  his  little  bottles  of  milk  and  cream 
on  the  back  steps.  Every  morning  the  furnace 
needs  a  little  grooming,  that  the  cheery  thump  of 
rising  pressure  may  warm  the  radiators  upstairs, 

284 


SHANDYGAFF  285 

Then  the  big  agate  kettle  must  be  set  over  the 
blue  gas  flame,  for  hot  water  is  needed  both  for 
shaving  and  cocoa.  Our  light  breakfast  takes 
only  a  moment  to  prepare.  By  the  time  the  Nut 
Brown  Maid  comes  singing  downstairs,  cocoa, 
rolls,  and  boiled  eggs  are  ready  in  the  sunny  little 
dining  room,  and  the  Tamperer  is  bathed  and 
shaved  and  telephoning  to  Central  .for  "the 
exact  time."  The  8:13  train  waits  for  no  man, 
and  it  is  nearly  a  mile  to  the  station. 

But  the  morning  I  think  of  was  not  a  routine 
morning.  On  routine  mornings  the  Tamperer 
rises  at  ten  minutes  to  seven,  the  alarm  clock 
being  set  for  6:45:  which  allows  five  minutes  for 
drowsy  head.  The  day  in  question  was  early 
February  when  snow  lay  white  and  powdery  on 
the  ground,  and  the  6  o'clock  train  from  Marathon 
had  to  be  caught.  There  is  an  express  for  Phil- 
adelphia that  leaves  the  Pennsylvania  Station  at 
7:30  and  this  the  Tamperer  had  to  take,  to  make 
a  10  o'clock  appointment  in  the  Quaker  City. 
That  was  why  the  alarm  clock  rang  at  half-past 
four. 

I  cannot  recall  a  more  virginal  morning  than 
that  snowy  twilight  before  the  dawn.  No  de- 
scription that  I  have  ever  read — not  even  the  day- 
break in  "Prince  Otto,"  or  Pippa's  dawn  boiling 
in  pure  gold  over  the  rim  of  night — would  be  just 


286  SHANDYGAFF 

to  that  exquisite  growth  of  colour  in  the  eastern 
sky.  The  violet  star  faded  to  forget-me-not  and 
then  to  silver  and  at  last  closed  his  weary  eye; 
the  flat  Long  Island  prairie  gradually  lost  its 
fairy-tale  air  of  mystery  and  dream;  the  close 
ceiling  of  the  night  receded  into  infinite  space 
as  the  sun  waved  his  radiant  arms  over  the 
horizon. 

But  this  was  after  I  had  left  the  house.  The 
sun  did  not  raise  his  head  from  the  pillow  until  I 
was  in  the  train.  The  Nut  Brown  Maid  was  still 
nested  in  her  warm  white  bed  as  I  took  her  up 
some  tea  and  toast  just  before  departing. 

The  walk  to  the  station,  over  the  crisply  frozen 
snow,  was  delicious.  Marathon  is  famous  for  its 
avenue  of  great  elms,  which  were  casting  deep 
blue  shadows  in  the  strange  light — waning  moon 
and  waxing  day.  The  air  was  very  chill — only 
just  above  zero — and  the  smoking  car  seemed  very 
cold  and  dismal.  I  huddled  my  overcoat  about 
me  and  tried  to  smoke  and  read  the  paper.  But 
in  that  stale,  fetid  odour  of  last  night's  tobacco  and 
this  morning's  wet  arctics  the  smoker  was  but  a 
dismal  place.  The  exaltation  of  the  dawn  drop- 
ped suddenly  into  a  kind  of  shivering  nausea. 

I  changed  to  another  car  and  threw  away  the 
war  news.  Just  then  the  sun  came  gloriously  over 
the  edge  of  the  fields  and  set  the  snow  afire.  As 


SHANDYGAFF  287 

we  rounded  the  long  curve  beyond  Woodside  I 
could  see  the  morning  light  shining  upon  the 
Metropolitan  Tower,  and  when  we  glided  into  the 
basement  of  the  Pennsylvania  Station  my  heart 
was  already  attuned  to  the  thrill  of  that  glorious 
place.  Perhaps  it  can  never  have  the  fascination 
for  me  that  the  old  dingy  London  terminals  have 
— King's  Cross,  Paddington,  or  Saint  Pancras,  with 
their  delicious  English  bookstalls  and  those  por- 
ters in  corduroy — but  the  Pennsylvania  is  a 
wonderful  place  after  all,  a  marble  palace  of 
romance  and  a  gallant  place  to  roam  about.  It 
seems  like  a  stable  without  horses,  though,  for 
where  are  the  trains?  No  chance  to  ramble 
about  the  platforms  (as  in  London)  to*  watch  the 
Duke  of  Abercorn  or  the  Lord  Claude  Hamilton, 
or  other  of  those  green  or  blue  English  locomo- 
tives with  lordly  names,  being  groomed  for  the 
run. 

In  the  early  morning  the  Pennsylvania  Station 
catches  in  its  high-vaulted  roof  the  first  flush  of 
sunlight;  and  before  the  flood  of  commuters  begins 
to  pour  in,  the  famous  station  cat  is  generally 
sitting  by  the  baggage  room  shining  his  morning 
face.  Up  at  the  marble  lunch  counters  the  col- 
oured gentlemen  are  serving  hot  cakes  and  coffee 
to  stray  travellers,  and  the  shops  along  the  Arcade 
are  being  swept  and  garnished.  As  I  passed 


288  SHANDYGAFF 

through  on  my  way  to  the  Philadelphia  train  I 
was  amused  by  a  wicker  basket  full  of  Scotch 
terrier  puppies — five  or  six  of  them  tumbling 
over  one  another  in  their  play  and  yelping  so  that 
the  station  rang.  "Every  little  bit  yelps"  as 
someone  has  said.  I  was  reminded  of  the  last 
words  I  ever  read  in  Virgil  (the  end  of  the  sixth 
book  of  the  Aeneid) — slant  litore  puppes,  which  I 
always  yearned  to  translate  "a  litter  of  puppies." 
My  train  purred  smoothly  under  the  Hudson 
and  under  Jersey  City  as  I  lit  my  cigar  and 
settled  comfortably  into  the  green  plush.  When 
we  emerged  from  the  tunnel  on  the  other  side  of 
the  long  ridge  (which  is  a  degenerate  spur  from 
the  Palisades  farther  north)  a  crescent  of  sun 
was  just  fringing  the  crest  with  fire.  Another 
moment  and  we  flashed  onto  the  Hackensack 
marshes  and  into  the  fully  minted  gold  of  superb 
morning.  The  day  was  begun. 


THE  AMERICAN  HOUSE  OF  LORDS 

I  AM  not  a  travelling  salesman  (except  in  so 
far  as  all  men  are)  so  I  do  not  often  travel 
in  the  Club  Car.  But  when  I  do,  irresistibly 
the  thought  conies  that  I  have  strayed  into  the 
American  House  of  Lords.  Unworthily  I  sit 
among  our  sovereign  legislators,  a  trifle  ill  at  ease 
mayhap.  In  the  day  coach  I  am  at  home  with  my 
peers — those  who  smoke  cheap  tobacco;  who 
nurse  fretful  babies;  who  strew  the  hot  plush  with 
sandwich  crumbs  and  lean  throbbing  foreheads 
against  the  window  pane. 

But  the  Club  Car  which  swings  so  smoothly  at 
the  end  of  a  limited  train  is  a  different  place, 
pardee.  It  is  not  a  hereditary  chamber,  but  it  is 
none  the  less  the  camera  stellata  of  our  prosperous 
carnivora.  Patently  these  men  are  Lords.  In 
two  facing  rows,  averted  from  the  landscape, 
condemned  to  an  uneasy  scrutiny  of  their  mutual 
prosperity,  they  sit  in  leather  chairs.  They  curve 
roundly  from  neck  to  groin.  They  are  shaven  to 
the  raw,  soberly  clad,  derby  hatted,  glossily 
booted.  Always  they  smoke  cigars,  those  strange, 
blunt  cigars  that  are  fatter  at  one  end  than 


290  SHANDYGAFF 

at  the  other.  Some  (these  I  think  are  the  very 
prosperous)  wear  shoes  with  fawn-coloured 
tops. 

Is  it  strange  then  that  I,  an  ill-clad  and  pipe- 
smoking  traveller,  am  faintly  uneasy  in  this  House 
of  Lords?  I  forget  myself  while  reading  poetry 
and  drop  my  tobacco  cinders  on  the  rug,  missing 
the  little  silver  gourd  that  rests  by  my  left  foot. 
Straight  the  white- jacketed  mulatto  sucks  them 
up  with  a  vacuum  cleaner  and  a  deprecating  air. 
I  pass  to  the  brass  veranda  at  the  end  of  the  car 
for  a  bracing  change  of  atmosphere.  And  return- 
ing, the  attendant  has  removed  my  little  pile  of 
books  which  I  left  under  my  chair,  and  hidden 
them  in  his  serving  grotto.  It  costs  me  at  least  a 
whiskey  and  soda  to  get  them  out. 

It  means,  I  suppose,  that  I  am  not  marked  for 
success.  I  am  cigarless  and  derby  less;  I  do  not 
wear  those  funny  little  white  margins  inside  my 
vest.  My  scarf  is  still  the  dear  old  shabby  one  in 
which  I  was  married  (I  bought  it  at  Rogers 
Feet's,  and  I  shall  never  forget  it)  and  when  I 
look  up  from  Emily  Dickinson's  poems  with  a 
trembling  thrill  of  painful  ecstasy,  I  am  frightened 
by  the  long  row  of  hard  faces  and  cynic  eyes 
opposite  me. 

The  House  of  Lords  disquiets  me.  Even  if  I 
ring  a  bell  and  order  a  bottle  I  am  not  happy.  Is 


SHANDYGAFF  291 

it  only  the  swing  of  the  car  that  nauseates   me? 
At  any  rate,  I  want  to  get  ho4me — home  to  that 
star-sown  meadow  and  the  two  brown  arms  at  the 
journey's  end. 
December,  1914, 


COTSWOLD  WINDS 

SPRING  comes  late  on  these  windy  up- 
lands, and  indoors  one  still  sits  close  to  the 
fire.  These  are  the  days  of  booming  gales 
over  the  sheep  wolds,  and  the  afternoon  ride  with 
Shotover  becomes  an  adventure.  I  am  not  one 
of  those  who  shirk  bicycling  in  a  wind.  Give 
me  a  two-mile  spin  with  the  gust  astern,  just  to 
loosen  the  muscles  and  sweep  the  morning's  books 
and  tobacco  from  the  brain — and  then  turn  and 
at  it!  It  is  like  swimming  against  a  great  crystal 
river.  Cap  off,  head  up — no  crouching  over  the 
handle-bars  like  the  Saturday  afternoon  shopmen ! 
Wind  in  your  hair,  the  broad  blue  Cotswold  slopes 
about  you,  every  ounce  of  leg-drive  straining  on  the 
pedals — three  minutes  of  it  intoxicates  you.  You 
crawl  up-wind  roaring  the  most  glorious  nonsense, 
ribaldry,  and  exultation  into  the  face  of  the  blast. 
I  am  all  for  the  Cotswolds  in  the  last  vacation 
before  "Schools."  In  mid-March  our  dear  gray 
Mother  Oxford  sends  us  away  for  six  weeks  while 
she  decks  herself  against  the  spring.  Far  and  wide 
we  scatter.  The  Prince  to  Germany — the  dons 
to  Devon — the  reading  parties  to  quiet  country 

292 


SHANDYGAFF  293 

inns  here  and  there.  Some  blithe  spirits  of  my 
acquaintance  are  in  those  glorious  dingy  garrets 
of  the  Latin  Quarter  with  Murger's  "Scenes  de  la 
Vie  de  Boheme"  as  a  viaticum.  Others  are  among 
the  tulips  in  Holland.  But  this  time  I  vote  for 
the  Cots  wolds  and  solitude. 

There  is  a  straggling  gray  village  which  lies  in 
the  elbow  of  a  green  valley,  with  a  clear  trout- 
stream  bubbling  through  it.  There  is  a  well- 
known  inn  by  the  bridge,  the  resort  of  many 
anglers.  But  I  am  not  for  inns  nor  for  anglers 
this  time.  It  is  a  serious  business,  these  last  two 
months  before  Schools,  and  I  and  my  books  are 
camped  in  a  " pensive  citadel"  up  on  the  hill, 
where  the  postman's  wife  cares  for  me  and  wor- 
ries because  I  do  not  eat  more  than  two  normal 
men.  There  is  a  low-ceilinged  sitting  room  with 
a  blazing  fire.  From  one  corner  a  winding  stair 
climbs  to  the  bedroom  above.  There  are  pipes 
and  tobacco,  pens  and  a  pot  of  ink.  There  are 
books — all  historical  volumes,  the  only  evidence 
of  relaxation  being  Arthur  Gibbs'  "A  Cotswold 
Village"  and  one  of  Bartholomew's  survey  maps. 
Ten  hours'  work,  seven  hours'  sleep,  three  hours' 
bicycling — that  leaves  four  hours  for  eating  and 
other  emergencies.  That  is  how  we  live  on  twenty - 
four  hours  a  day,  and  turn  a  probable  Fourth  in 
the  Schools  into  a  possible  Third. 


294  SHANDYGAFF 

And  What  could  better  those  lonely  afternoon 
rides  on  Shotover?  The  valley  of  the  Colne  is 
one  of  the  most  entrancing  bits  in  England,  I 
think.  A  lonely  road,  winding  up  the  green 
trough  of  the  stream,  now  and  then  crossing  the 
shoulder  of  the  hills,  takes  you  far  away  from 
most  of  the  things  one  likes  to  leave  behind. 
There  are  lambs,  little  black  fuzzy  fellows,  on  the 
uplands;  there  are  scores  of  rabbits  disappearing 
with  a  flirt  of  white  hindquarters  into  their  way- 
side burrows;  in  Ched worth  Woods  there  are 
pheasants,  gold  and  blue  and  scarlet,  almost 
as  tame  as  barnyard  fowls;  everywhere  there  are 
skylarks  throbbing  in  the  upper  blue — and  these 
are  all  your  company.  Now  and  then  a  great 
yellow  farm-wagon  and  a  few  farmers  in  cordu- 
roys— but  no  one  else.  That  is  the  kind  of 
country  to  bicycle  into.  Up  and  up  the  valley, 
past  the  Roman  villa,  until  you  come  to  the 
smoking-place.  No  pipeful  ever  tasted  better 
than  this,  stretched  on  the  warm  grass  watching 
the  green  water  dimpling  over  the  stones.  That 
same  water  passes  the  Houses  of  Parliament  by 
and  by.  I  think  it  would  stay  by  Ched  worth 
Woods  if  it  could — and  so  would  I. 

But  it  is  four  o'clock,  and  tea  will  be  waiting. 
Protesting  Shotover  is  pushed  up  a  swampy  hill- 
side through  the  trees — and  we  come  out  onto  a 


SHANDYGAFF  295 

hilltop  some  800  feet  above  the  sea.  And  from 
there  it  is  eight  miles  homeward,  mostly  down- 
hill, with  a  broad  blue  horizon  to  meet  the  eye. 
Back  to  the  tiny  cottage  looking  out  onto  the 
village  green  and  the  old  village  well;  back  to 
four  cups  of  tea  and  hot  buttered  toast;  and  then 
for  Metternich  and  the  Vienna  Congress.  Sol- 
vitur  bicyclando  I 

And  when  we  clatter  down  the  High  again, 
two  weeks  hence,  Oxford  will  have  made  her 
great  transformation.  We  left  her  in  winter, 
mud  and  sleet  and  stormy  sunsets.  But  a  fort- 
night from  now,  however  cold,  it  will  be  what  we 
hopefully  call  the  Summer  Term.  There  will  be 
white  flannels,  and  Freshmen  learning  to  punt 
on  the  Cher.  But  that  is  not  for  us  now.  There 
are  the  Schools.  .  .  . 

Bibury,  April,  1913. 


CLOUDS 

WHO  has  ever  done  justice  to  the  majesty 
of  the  clouds?     Alice  Meynell,  perhaps? 
George    Meredith?     Shelley,    who    was 
"gold-dusty  with  tumbling  amongst  the  stars?" 
Henry  Van  Dyke  has  sung  of   "The    heavenly 
hills  of  Holland,"  but  in  a  somewhat  treble  pipe; 
R.  L.  S.  said  it  better— "The   travelling   moun- 
tains of  the  sky."    Ah,  how  much  is  still  to  be  said 
of  those  piled-up  mysteries  of  heaven! 

We  rode  to-day  down  the  Delaware  Valley 
from  Milford  to  Stroudsburg.  That  wonderful 
meadowland  between  the  hills  (it  is  just  as  lovely 
as  the  English  Avon,  but  how  much  more  likely 
we  are  to  praise  the  latter!)  converges  in  a  huge  V 
toward  the  Water  Gap,  drawing  the  foam  of 
many  a  mountain  creek  down  through  that  match- 
less pass  way.  Over  the  hills  which  tumble  steeply 
on  either  side  soared  the  vast  Andes  of  the  clouds, 
hanging  palpable  in  the  sapphire  of  a  summer 
sky.  What  height  on  height  of  craggy  softness 
on  those  silver  steeps!  What  rounded  bosomy 
curves  of  golden  vapour;  what  sharpened  pinnacles 
of  nothingness,  spiring  in  ever-changing  contour 

296 


SHANDYGAFF  29T 

into  the  intangible  blue!  Man  the  finite,  reveller 
in  the  explainable  and  the  exact,  how  can  his  eye 
pierce  or  his  speech  describe  the  rolling  robes  of 
glory  in  which  floating  moisture  clothes  itself! 

Mile  on  mile,  those  peaks  of  midsummer 
snow  were  marching  the  highways  of  the  air. 
Fascinated,  almost  stupefied,  we  watched  their 
miracles  of  form  and  unfathomable  glory.  It  was 
as  though  the  stockades  of  earth  had  fallen  away. 
Palisaded,  cliff  on  radiant  cliff,  the  spires  of  the 
Unseeable  lay  bare.  Ever  since  childhood  one 
has  dreamed  of  scaling  the  bulwarks  of  the  clouds, 
of  riding  the  ether  on  those  strange  galleons. 
Unconscious  of  their  own  beauty,  they  pass  in 
dissolving  shapes — now  scudding  on  that  waveless 
azure  sea;  now  drifting  with  scant  steerage  way. 
If  one  could  lie  upon  their  opal  summits  what 
depths  and  Vhat  abysses  would  meet  the  eye! 
What  glowing  chasms  to  catch  the  ardour  of  the 
sun,  what  chill  and  empty  hollows  of  creaming 
mist,  dropping  in  pale  and  awful  spirals.  Float- 
ing flat  like  ice  floes  beneath  the  greenish  moon, 
or  beetling  up  in  prodigious  ledges  of  seeming 
solidness  on  a  sunny  morning — are  they  not  the 
most  superbly  heart-easing  miracles  of  our  visible 
world?  Watch  them  as  they  shimmer  down 
toward  the  Water  Gap  in  every  shade  of  silver  and 
rose  and  opal;  or  delicately  tinged  with  ambel 


298  SHANDYGAFF 

when  they  have  caught  some  jewelled  chain  of 
lightning  and  are  suffused  with  its  lurid  sparkle. 
Man  has  worshipped  sticks  and  stones  and  stars: 
has  he  never  bent  a  knee  to  the  high  gods  of  the 
clouds? 

There  they  wander,  the  unfettered  spirits  of 
bliss  or  doom.  Holding  within  their  billowed 
masses  the  healing  punishments  of  the  rain,chaliced 
beakers  of  golden  flame,  lightnings  instant  and 
unbearable  as  the  face  of  God — dissolving  into  a 
crystal  nothing,  reborn  from  the  viewless  caverns 
of  air — here  let  us  erect  one  enraptured  altar  to 
the  bright  mountains  of  the  sky! 

At  sunset  we  were  climbing  back  among  the 
wooded  hills  of  Pike  County,  fifteen  hundred  feet 
above  the  salt.  One  great  castle  of  clouds  that 
had  long  drawn  our  eyes  was  crowning  some  in- 
visible airy  summit  far  above  us.  *  As  the  sun 
dipped  it  grew  gray,  soft,  and  pallid.  And  then  one 
last  banner  of  rosy  light  beaconed  over  its  highest 
turret — a  final  flare  of  glory  to  signal  curfew  to  all 
the  other  silver  hills.  Slowly  it  faded  in  the  shad- 
ow of  dusk. 

We  thought  that  was  the  end.  But  no — a 
little  later,  after  we  had  reached  the  farm, 
we  saw  that  the  elfs  of  cloudland  were  still  at  play. 
Every  few  minutes  the  castle  glowed  with  a  sud- 
den gush  of  pale  blue  lightning.  And  while  we 


SHANDYGAFF  299 

watched,  with  hearts  almost  painfully  sated  by 
beauty,  through  some  leak  the  precious  fire  ran 
out;  a  great  stalk  of  pure  and  unspeakable  bright- 
ness fled  passionately  to  earth.  This  happened 
again  and  again  until  the  artery  of  fire  was  dis- 
charged. And  then,  slowly,  slowly,  the  stars 
began  to  pipe  up  the  evening  breeze.  Our  cloud 
drifted  gently  away. 

Where  and  in  what  strange  new  form  did  it 
greet  the  flush  of  dawn?     Who  knows? 


UNHEALTHY 

ON  SATURDAY  afternoons  Titania  and  I 
always  have  an  adventure.     On  Sundays 
we  stay  at  home  and  dutifully  read  manu- 
scripts (I  am  the  obscure  creature  known  as  a 
"publisher's   reader")    but   Saturday   post  meri- 
diem is  a  golden  tract  of  time  wherein  we  wander 
as  we  list. 

The  35th  Street  entrance  to  McQueery's  has 
long  been  hallowed  as  our  stell-dich-ein.  We  meet 
there  at  one  o'clock.  That  is  to  say,  I  arrive  at 
12:59  and  spend  fifteen  minutes  in  most  animated 
reflection.  There  is  plenty  to  think  about.  One 
may  stand  between  the  outer  and  inner  lines  of 
glass  doors  and  watch  the  queer  little  creatures 
that  come  tumbling  out  of  the  cloak  and  suit 
factory  across  the  street.  Or  one  may  stand  in- 
side the  store,  on  a  kind  of  terrace,  beneath  pine- 
apple shaped  arc  lights,  looking  down  upon  the 
bustle  of  women  on  the  main  floor.  Best  of  all, 
one  may  stroll  along  the  ornate  gallery  to  one 
side  where  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  ladies  wait 
for  other  ladies  who  have  promised  to  meet  them 

300 


SHANDYGAFF  301 

at  one  o'clock.  They  divide  their  time  between 
examining  the  mahogany  victrolae  and  deciding 
what  kind  of  sundae  they  will  have  for  lunch.  A 
very  genteel  old  gentleman  with  white  hair  and  a 
long  morning  coat  and  an  air  of  perpetual  irrita- 
tion is  in  charge  of  this  social  gallery.  He  wears 
the  queer,  soft,  flat-soled  boots  that  are  suggestive 
of  corns.  There  is  an  information  bureau  there, 
where  one  may  learn  everything  except  the  time 
one  may  expect  one's  wife  to  arrive.  But  I  have 
learned  a  valuable  subterfuge.  If  I  am  waiting 
for  Titania,  and  beginning  to  despair  of  her 
arrival,  I  have  only  to  go  to  a  telephone  to  call 
her  up.  As  soon  as  I  have  put  the  nickel  in,  she 
is  sure  to  appear.  Nowadays  I  save  the  nickel 
by  going  into  a  booth  and  pretending  to  telephone . 
Sure  enough,  at  1:14,  Ingersoll  time,  in  she 
trots. 

We  have  a  jargon  of  our  own. 

"Eye-polishers?"  say  I. 

"Yes,"  says  Titania,  "but  there  was  a  block 
at  42nd  Street.  I'm  so  sorry,  Grump." 

"Eye-polishers"  is  our  term  for  the  Fifth 
Avenue  busses,  because  riding  on  them  makes 
Titania's  eyes  so  bright.  More  widely,  the  word 
connotes  anything  that  produces  that  desirable 
result,  such  as  bunches  of  violets,  lavender  ped- 
dlers, tea  at  Mary  Elizabeth's,  spring  millinery, 


302  SHANDYGAFF 

or  finding  sixpence  in  her  shoe.  This  last  is  a  rite 
suggested  by  the  old  song: 

And  though  maids  sweep  their  hearths  no  less 

Than  they  were  wont  to  do, 
Yet  who  doth  now  for  cleanliness 

Find  sixpence  in  her  shoe? 

A  bright  dime  does  very  well  as  a  sixpenny 
piece. 

We  always  lunch  at  Moretti's  on  Saturday:  it  is 
the  recognized  beginning  of  an  adventure.  The 
Moretti  lunch  has  advanced  from  a  quarter  to 
thirty  cents,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  but  this  is  readily 
compensated  by  the  Grump  buying  Sweet  Capo- 
rals  instead  of  something  Turkish.  A  packet  of 
cigarettes  is  another  curtain-raiser  for  an  adven- 
ture. On  other  days  publishers'  readers  smoke 
pipes,  but  on  Saturdays  cigarettes  are  possible. 

"Antipasto?" 

"No,  thanks." 

"Minestrone  or  consomme?" 

"Two  minestrone,  two  prime  ribs,  ice  cream  and 
coffee.  Red  wine,  please."  That  is  the  formula. 
We  have  eaten  the  "old  reliable  Moretti  lunch" 
so  often  that  the  routine  has  become  a  ritual.  Oh, 
excellent  savor  of  the  Moretti  basement!  Com- 
pounded of  warmth,  a  pungent  pourri  of  smells, 
and  the  jangle  of  thick  china,  how  diverting  it  is! 


SHANDYGAFF  303 

The  franc-tireur  in  charge  of  the  wine-bin  watches 
us  complaisantly  from  his  counter  where  he  sits 
flanked  by  flasks  of  Hoboken  chianti  and  a  case  of 
brittle  cigars. 

How  good  Moretti's  minestrone  tastes  to  the 
unsophisticated  tongue.  What  though  it  be  only 
an  azoic  extract  of  intense  potato,  dimly  tinct 
with  sargasso  and  macaroni — it  has  a  pleasing 
warmth  and  bulk.  Is  it  not  the  prelude  to  an 
Adventure? 

Well,  where  shall  we  go  to-day?  No  two 
explorers  dickering  over  azimuth  and  dead  reckon- 
ing could  discuss  latitude  and  longitude  more 
earnestly  than  Titania  and  I  argue  our  possible 
courses.  Generally,  however,  she  leaves  it  to  me 
to  chart  the  journey.  That  gives  me  the  pride 
^)f  conductor  and  her  the  pleasure  of  being  sur- 
prised. 

According  to  our  Mercator's  projection  (which, 
duly  wrapped  in  a  waterproof  envelope,  we 
always  carry  on  our  adventures)  there  was  a  little 
known  region  lying  nor'  nor' west  of  Blackwell's 
Island  and  plotted  on  the  map  as  East  River 
Park.  I  had  heard  of  this  as  a  picturesque  and 
old-fashioned  territory,  comparatively  free  from 
footpads  and  lying  near  such  places  as  Astoria 
and  Hell  Gate.  We  laid  a  romantic  course  due 
east  along  35th  Street,  Titania  humming  a  little 


304  SHANDYGAFF 

snatch  from  an  English  music-hall  song  that  once 
amused  us: 

"My  old' man's  a  fireman 
Now  what  do  you  think  of  that? 
He  wears  goblimey  breeches 
And  a  little  goblimey  hat." 

She  always  quotes  this  to  me  when  (she  says)  I 
wear  my  hat  too  far  on  the  back  of  my  head. 

The  cross  slope  of  Murray  Hill  drops  steeply 
downward  after  one  leaves  Madison  Avenue.  We 
dipped  into  a  region  that  has  always  been  very 
fascinating  to  me.  Under  the  roaring  L,  past 
dingy  saloons,  animal  shops,  tinsmiths,  and  pain- 
less dentists,  past  the  old  dismantled  Manhattan 
hospital.  The  taste  of  spring  was  in  the  air: 
one  of  the  dentists  was  having  his  sign  regilded, 
a  huge  four-pronged  grinder  as  big  as  McTeague's 
in  Frank  Norris's  story.  Oysters  going  out,  the 
new  brew  of  Bock  beer  coming  in:  so  do  the  saloons 
mark  the  vernal  equinox. 

A  huge  green  chalet  built  on  stilts,  with  two  tiers 
of  trains  rumbling  by,  is  the  L  station  at  34th 
Street  and  Second  Avenue.  A  cutting  wind  blew 
from  the  East  River,  only  two  blocks  away.  I 
paid  two  nickels  and  we  got  into  the  front  car  of 
the  northbound  train. 

Until  Titania  and  I  attain  the  final  glory  of 


SHANDYGAFF  305 

riding  in  an  aeroplane,  or  ascend  Jacob's  ladder, 
there  never  will  be  anything  so  thrilling  as  soaring 
over  the  housetops  in  the  Second  Avenue  L. 
Rocking,  racketing,  roaring  over  those  crazy 
trestles,  now  a  glimpse  of  the  leaden  river  to  the 
east,  now  a  peep  of  church  spires  and  skyscrapers 
on  the  west,  and  'the  dingy  imitation  lace  curtains 
of  the  third-story  windows  flashing  by  like  a 
recurring  pattern — it  is  a  voyage  of  romance! 
Did  you  ever  stand  at  the  front  door  of  an  Ele- 
vated train,  watching  the  track  stretch  far  ahead 
toward  the  Bronx,  and  the  little  green  stations 
slipping  nearer  and  nearer?  The  Subway  is  a 
black,  bellowing  horror;  the  bus  a  swaying,  jolty 
start-and-stop,  bruising  your  knees  against  the 
seat  in  front;  but  the  L  swings  you  up  and  over  the 
housetops,  smooth  and  sheer  and  swift. 

We  descended  at  86th  Street  and  found  our- 
selves in  a  new  world.  A  broad,  dingy  street, 
lined  by  shabby  brown  houses  and  pushbutton 
apartments,  led  in  a  gentle  descent  toward  the 
river.  The  neighbourhood  was  noisy,  quarrel- 
some, and  dirty.  After  a  long,  bitter  March  the 
thaw  had  come  at  last:  the  street  was  viscous 
with  slime,  the  melting  snow  lay  in  grayish  piles 
along  the  curbs.  Small  boys  on  each  side  of  the 
street  were  pelting  sodden  snowballs  which  spat- 
tered around  us  as  we  walked  down  the  pavement. 


30C  SHANDYGAFF 

But  after  two  blocks  things  changed  suddenly. 
The  trolley  swung  round  at  a  right  angle  (up 
Avenue  A)  and  the  last  block  of  86th  Street 
showed  the  benefit  of  this  manoeuvre.  The 
houses  grew  neat  and  respectable.  A  little  side 
street  branching  off  to  the  left  (not  recorded  by 
Mercator)  revealed  some  quaint  cottages  with 
gables  and  shuttered  windows  so  mid-Victorian 
that  my  literary  heart  leaped  and  I  dreamed  at 
once  of  locating  a  novel  in  this  fascinating  spot. 
And  then  we  rounded  the  corner  and  saw  the  little 
park. 

It  was  a  bit  of  old  Chelsea,  nothing  less.  Ti- 
tania  clapped  her  hands,  and  I  lit  my  pipe  in 
gratification.  Beside  us  was  a  row  of  little  houses 
of  warm  red  brick  with  peaked  mansard  roofs  and 
cozy  bay  windows  and  polished  door  knockers. 
In  front  of  them  was  the  lumpy  little  park,  cut 
up  into  irregular  hills,  where  children  were  flying 
kites.  And  beyond  that,  an  embankment  and 
the  river  in  a  dimVet  mist.  There  was  Blackwell's 
Island,  and  a  sailing  barge  slipping  by.  In  the 
distance  we  could  see  the  colossal  span  of  the  new 
Hell  Gate  bridge.  With  the  journalist's  instinct 
for  superlatives  I  told  Titania  it  was  the  largest 
single  span  in  the  world.  I  wonder  if  it  is? 

As  to  that  I  know  not.  But  it  was  the  river 
that  lured  us.  On  the  embankment  we  found 


SHANDYGAFF  307 

benches  and  sat  down  to  admire  the  scene.  It 
was  as  picturesque  as  Battersea  in  Whistler's 
mistiest  days.  A  ferryboat,  crossing  to  Astoria, 
hooted  musically  through  the  haze.  Tugs,  puff- 
ing up  past  BlackwelPs  Island  into  the  Harlem 
River,  replied  with  mellow  blasts.  The  pungent 
tang  of  the  East  River  tickled  our  nostrils,  and  all 
my  old  ambition  to  be  a  tugboat  captain  returned. 

And  then  trouble  began.  Just  as  I  was  planning 
how  we  might  bilk  our  landlord  on  Long  Island 
and  move  all  our  belongings  to  this  delicious 
spot,  gradually  draw  our  friends  around  us,  and 
make  East  End  Avenue  the  Cheyne  Walk  of  New 
York — we  might  even  import  an  English  imagist 
poet  to  lend  cachet  to  the  coterie — I  saw  by 
Titania's  face  that  something  was  wrong. 

I  pressed  her  for  the  reason  of  her  frown. 

She  thought  the  region  was  unhealthy. 

Now  when  Titania  thinks  that  a  place  is  un- 
healthy no  further  argument  is  possible.  Just 
on  what  data  she  bases  these  deductions  I  have 
never  been  able  to  learn.  I  think  she  can  tell  by 
the  shape  of  the  houses,  or  the  lush  quality  of  the 
foliage,  or  the  fact  that  the  garbage  men  collect 
from  the  front  instead  of  from  the  back.  But 
however  she  arrives  at  the  conclusion,  it  is  im- 
mutable. 

Any  place  that  I  think  is  peculiarly  amusing,  or 


308  SHANDYGAFF 

quaint,  or  picturesque,  Titania  thinks  is  un- 
healthy. 

Sometimes  I  can  see  it  coming.  We  are  on  our 
way  to  Mulberry  Bend,  or  the  Bowery,  or  Far- 
rish's  Chop  House.  I  see  her  brow  begin  to 
pucker.  "Do  you  feel  as  though  it  is  going  to 
be  unhealthy?"  I  ask  anxiously.  If  she  does, 
there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  clutch  at  the  nearest 
subway  station  and  hurry  up  to  Grant's  Tomb. 
In  that  bracing  ether  her  spirits  revive. 

So  it  was  on  this  afternoon.  My  Utopian  vis- 
ion of  a  Chelsea  in  New  York,  outdoing  the  grimy 
salons  of  Greenwich  Village,  fell  in  splinters  at  the 
bottom  of  my  mind.  Sadly  1  looked  upon  the  old 
Carl  Schurz  mansion  on  the  hill,  and  we  departed 
for  the  airy  plateaus  of  Central  Park.  Desper- 
ately I  pointed  to  the  fading  charms  of  East 
River  Park — the  convent  round  the  corner,  the 
hokey  pokey  cart  by  the  curbstone. 

I  shall  never  be  a  tugboat  captain.  It  isn't 
healthy. 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  SMOKER 

TRUE  smokers  are  born  and  not  made.  I 
remember  my  grandfather  with  his  snowy 
beard  gloriously  stained  by  nicotine;  from 
my  first  years  I  never  saw  my  father  out  of  reach 
of  his  pipe,  save  when  asleep.  Of  what  avail 
for  my  mother  to  promise  unheard  bonuses  if  I  did 
not  smoke  until  I  was  twenty?  By  the  time  I 
was  eight  years  old  I  had  constructed  a  pipe  of  an 
acorn  and  a  straw,  and  had  experimented  with 
excelsior  as  fuel.  From  that  time  I  passed 
through  the  well-known  stages  of  dried  bean-pod 
cigars,  hayseed,  corn  silk,  tea  leaves,  and  (first 
ascent  of  the  true  Olympus)  Recruits  Little 
Cigars  smoked  in  a  lumberyard  during  school 
recess.  Thence  it  was  but  a  step  to  the  first  bag 
of  Bull  Durham  and  a  twenty-five-cent  pipe  with 
a  curved  bone  stem. 

I  never  knew  the  traditional  pangs  of  Huck 
Finn  and  the  other  heroes  of  fiction.  I  never  yet 
found  a  tobacco  that  cost  me  a  moment's  unease 
— but  stay,  there  was  a  cunning  mixture  devised 
by  some  comrades  at  college  that  harboured  in 
its  fragrant  shreds  neatly  chopped  sections  of 


310  SHANDYGAFF 

rubber  bands.  That  was  sheer  poison,  I  grant 
you. 

The  weed  needs  no  new  acolyte  to  hymn  her 
sanctities.  Where  Raleigh,  Pepys,  Tennyson, 
Kingsley,  Calverley,  Barrie,  and  the  whimful 
Elia  best  of  all — where  these  have  spoken  so 
greatly,  the  feeble  voice  may  well  shrink.  But 
that  is  the  joy  of  true  worship:  ranks  and  hier- 
archies are  lost,  all  are  brothers  in  the  mystery, 
and  amid  approving  puffs  of  rich  Virginia  the 
older  saints  of  the  mellow  leaf  genially  greet  the 
new  freshman,  be  he  never  so  humble. 

What  would  one  not  have  given  to  smoke  a 
pipe  out  with  the  great  ones  of  the  empire!  That 
wainscoted  back  parlour  at  the  Salutation  and  Cat, 
for  instance,  where  Lamb  and  Coleridge  used  to 
talk  into  the  small  hours  "quaffing  egg  flip, 
devouring  Welsh  rabbits,  and  smoking  pipes  of 
Orinooko."  Or  the  back  garden  in  Chelsea  where 
Carlyle  and  Emerson  counted  the  afternoon  well 
spent,  though  neither  one  had  said  a  hundred 
words — had  they  not  smoked  together?  Or  Pis- 
cator  and  Viator,  as  they  trudged  together  to 
"prevent  the  sunrise"  on  Am  well  Hill — did  not 
the  reek  of  their  tobacco  trail  most  bluely  on  the 
sweet  morning  air?  Or  old  Fitz,  walking  on  the 
Deben  wall  at  Woodbridge,  on  his  way  to  go  sailing 
with  Posh  down  to  Bawdsey  Ferry — what  mixture 


SHANDYGAFF  311 

did  lie  fill  and  light?  Something  recommended  by 
Will  Thackeray,  I'll  be  sworn.  Or,  to  come  down 
to  more  recent  days,  think  of  Captain  Joseph 
Conrad  at  his  lodgings  in  Bessborough  Gardens, 
lighting  that  apocalyptic  pipe  that  preceded  the 
first  manuscript  page  of  "Almayer's  Folly." 
Could  I  only  have  been  the  privileged  landlady's 
daughter  who  cleared  away  the  Captain's  break- 
fast dishes  that  morning!  I  wonder  if  she  remem- 
bers the  incident?* 

It  is  the  heart  of  fellowship,  the  core  and  pith 
and  symbol  of  masculine  friendship  and  good  talk. 
Your  cigar  will  do  for  drummers,  your  cigarettes 
for  the  dilettante  smoker,  but  for  the  ripened, 
boneset  votary  nothing  but  a  briar  will  suffice. 
Away  with  meerschaum,  calabash,  cob,  and  clay: 
they  have  their  purpose  in  the  inscrutable  order 
of  things,  like  crossing  sweepers  and  presidents  of 
women's  clubs;  but  when  Damon  and  Pythias 
meet  to  talk  things  over,  well-caked  briars  are  in 
order.  Cigars  are  all  right  in  fiction:  for  Prince 
Florizel  and  Colonel  Geraldine  when  they  visit  the 
famous  Divan  in  Rupert  Street.  It  was  Leigh 
Hunt,  in  the  immortal  Wishing  Cap  Papers  (so 
little  read,  alas!),  who  uttered  the  finest  plea  for 
cigars  that  this  language  affords,  but  I  will  wager 


The  reference  here  is  to  Chapter  IV  of  Joseph  Conrad's  "A  Personal  Record."  The 
author's  allusions  are  often  sadly  obscure. — EDITOR. 


312  SHANDYGAFF 

not  a  director  of  the  United  Cigar  Stores  ever 
read  it. 

The  fine  art  of  smoking  used,  in  older  days,  to 
have  an  etiquette,  a  usage,  and  traditions  of  its 
own,  which  a  more  hurried  and  hygienic  age  has 
discarded.  It  was  the  height  of  courtesy  to  ask 
your  friend  to  let  you  taste  his  pipe,  and  draw 
therefrom  three  or  four  mouthfuls  of  smoke. 
This  afforded  ppportunity  for  a  gracious  exchange 
of  compliments.  "Will  it  please  you  to  impart 
your  whiff?"  was  the  accepted  phrase.  And  then, 
having  savored  his  mixture,  you  would  have  said: 
"In  truth,  a  very  excellent  leaf/'  offering  your 
own  with  proper  deprecations.  This,  and  many 
other  excellent  things,  we  learn  from  Mr.  Apper- 
son's  noble  book  "The  Social  History  of  Smok- 
ing," which  should  be  prayer  book  and  breviary 
to  every  smoker  con  amore. 

But  the  pipe  rises  perhaps  to  its  highest  function 
as  the  solace  and  companion  of  lonely  vigils.  We 
all  look  back  with  tender  affection  on  the  joys  of 
tobacco  shared  with  a  boon  comrade  on  some  walk- 
ing trip,  some  high-hearted  adventure,  over  the 
malt-stained  counters  of  some  remote  alehouse. 
These  are  the  memories  that  are  bittersweet 
beyond  the  compass  of  halting  words.  Never 
again  perhaps  will  we  throw  care  over  the  hedge 
and  stride  with  Mifflin  down  the  Banbury  Road, 


SHANDYGAFF  313 

*  i 

filling  the  air  with  laughter  and  the  fumes  of 
Murray's  Mellow.  But  even  deeper  is  the  tribute 
we  pay  to  the  sour  old  elbow  of  briar,  the  dented, 
blackened  cutty  that  has  been  with  us  through  a 
thousand  soundless  midnights  and  a  hundred 
weary  dawns  when  cocks  were  crowing  in  the  bleak 
air  and  the  pen  faltered  in  the  hand.  Then  is 
the  pipe  an  angel  and  minister  of  grace.  Clocks 
run  down  and  pens  grow  rusty,  but  if  your  pouch 
be  full  your  pipe  will  never  fail  you. 

How  great  is  the  witching  power  of  this  sover- 
eign rite!  I  cannot  even  read  in  a  book  of  some- 
one enjoying  a  pipe  without  my  fingers  itching  to 
light  up  and  puff  with  him.  My  mouth  has  been 
sore  and  baked  a  hundred  times  after  an  evening 
with  Elia.  The  rogue  simply  can't  help  talking 
about  tobacco,  and  I  strike  a  match  for  every 
essay.  God  bless  him  and  his  dear  "Orinooko!" 
Or  Parson  Adams  in  "Joseph  Andrews" — he 
lights  a  pipe  on  every  page! 

I  cannot  light  up  in  a  wind.  It  is  too  precious 
a  rite  to  be  consummated  in  a  draught.  I  hide 
behind  a  tree,  a  wall,  a  hedge,  or  bury  my  head  in 
my  coat.  People  see  me  in  the  street,  vainly  seek- 
ing shelter.  It  is  a  weakness,  though  not  a  shame- 
ful one.  But  set  me  in  a  tavern  corner,  and  fill  the 
pouch  .with  "Quiet  Moments"  (do  you  know  that 
English  mixture?)  and  I  am  yours  to  the  last  ash. 


314 


SHANDYGAFF 


I  wonder  after  all  what  was  the  sweetest  pipe  I 
ever  smoked?  I  have  a  tender  spot  in  memory 
for  a  fill  of  Murray's  Mellow  that  Mifflin  and  I  had 
in  the  old  smoking  room  of  the  Three  Crowns  Inn 
at  Lichfield.  We  weren't  really  thirsty,  but  we 
drank  cider  there  in  honour  of  Dr.  Johnson,  sitting 
in  his  chair  and  beneath  his  bust.  Then  there 
were  those  pipes  we  used  to  smoke  at  twilight 
sitting  on  the  steps  of  17  Heriot  Row,  the  old 
home  of  R.  L.  S.  in  Edinburgh,  as  we  waited  for 
Leerie  to  come  by  and  light  the  lamps.  Oh,  pipes 
of  youth,  that  can  never  come  again! 

When  George  Fox  was  a  young  man,  sorely 
troubled  by  visions  of  the  devil,  a  preacher  told 
him  to  smoke  tobacco  and  sing  hymns. 

Not  such  bad  advice. 


HAY  FEBRIFUGE 

OUR  village  is  remarkable. 
It  contains  the  greatest  publisher  in 
the  world,  the  most  notable  department 
store  baron  (and  inventor  of  that  new  form  of  liter- 
ary essay,  the  department  store  ad.),  the  most  frag- 
rant gas  tanks  in  the  Department  of  the  East, 
the  greatest  number  of  cinders  per  eye  of  any 
arondissement  served  by  the  R—  -  railway,  and 
the  most  bitterly  afflicted  hay  fever  sufferer  on  this 
sneezing  sphere.  Also  the  editor  of  the  most 
widely  circulated  magazine  in  the  world,  and  the 
author  of  one  of  the  best  selling  books  that  ever 
was  written. 

Not  bad  for  one  village. 

Your  first  thought  is  Northampton,  Mass., 
but  you  are  wrong.  That  is  where  Gerald  Stanley 
Lee  lives.  For  a  stamped,  addressed  envelope  I 
will  give  you  the  name  of  our  village,  and  instruc- 
tions for  avoiding  it.  It  is  bounded  on  the  north 
by  goldenrod,  on  the  south  by  ragweed,-  on  the 
east  by  asthma  and  the  pollen  of  anemophylous 
plants. 

It  is  bounded  on  the  west  by  a  gray  stone 

315 


310  SHANDYGAFF 

facsimile  of  Windsor  Castle,  confirmed  with  but- 
lers, buttresses,  bastions,  ramparts,  repartees,  feu- 
dal tenures,  moats,  drawbridges,  posterns,  pasterns, 
chevaux  de  frise,  machicolated  battlements,  don- 
jons, loopholes,  machine-gun  emplacements,  cal- 
trops, portcullises,  glacis,  and  all  the  other  travaux 
de  f antaisie  that  make  life  worth  living  for  retired 
manufacturers.  The  general  effect  is  emetic  in 
the  extreme.  Hard  by  the  castle  is  a  spurious 
and  richly  gabled  stable  in  the  general  style  of  the 
chateau  de  Chantilly.  One  brief  strip  of  lawn 
constitutes  a  gulf  of  five  hundred  years  in  archi- 
tecture, and  restrains  Runnymede  from  Versailles. 

Our  village  is  famous  for  beautiful  gardens.  At 
five  o'clock  merchants  and  gens  de  lettres  return 
home  from  office  and  tannery,  remove  the  cinders, 
and  commune  with  vervain  and  bergamot.  The 
countryside  is  as  lovely  as  Devonshire,  equipped 
with  sky,  trees,  rolling  terrain,  stewed  terrapin, 
golf  meads,  nut  sundaes,  beagles,  spare  tires,  and 
other  props.  But  we  are*  equally  infamous  for 
hideous  houses,  of  the  Chester  A.  Arthur  era. 
Every  prospect  pleases,  and  man  alone  is  vile. 

There  is  a  large,  expensive  school  for  flappers 
on  a  hill;  and  a  drugstore  or    pharmacy    where 
the  flappers  come  to  blow  off  steam.     It  would 
be  worth  ten  thousand  dollars  to  Beatrice  Herford 
to  ambush  herself  behind  the  Welch's  grape  juice 


SHANDYGAFF  317 

life-size  cut-out,  and  takes  notes  on  flapperiana. 
Pond  Lyceum  Bureau  please  copy. 

Our  village  was  once  famous  also  as  the  dwell- 
ing place  of  an  eminent  parson,  who  obtained  a 
million  signatures  for  a  petition  to  N.  Romanoff, 
asking  the  abolition  of  knouting  of  women  in 
Siberia.  And  now  N.  Romanoff  himself  is  gone 
to  Siberia,  and  there  is  no  knouting  or  giving  in 
knoutage;  no  pogroms  or  ukases  or  any  other 
check  on  the  ladies.  Knitting  instead  of  knout- 
ing is  the  order  of  the  day. 

Kno'u  tings  for  flappers,  say  I,  after  returning 
from  the  pharmacy  or  drugstore. 

Dr.  Anna  Howard  Shaw  does  not  live  here, 
but  she  is  within  a  day's  journey  on  the  Cinder 
and  Bloodshot. 

But  I  was  speaking  of  hay  fever.  "Although 
not  dangerous  to  life,"  say  Drs.  S.  Oppenheimer 
and  Mark  Gottlieb,  "it  causes  at  certain  times 
such  extreme  discomfort  to  some  of  its  victims  as 
to  unfit  them  for  their  ordinary  pursuits.  If  we 
accept  the  view  that  it  is  a  disease  of  the  classes 
rather  than  the  masses  we  may  take  the  viewpoint 
of  self-congratulation  rather  than  of  humiliation 
as  indicating  a  superiority  in  culture  and  civiliza- 
tion of  the  favoured  few.  When  the  intimate 
connection  of  pollinosis  and  culture  has  been 
firmly  grasped  by  the  public  mind,  the  complaint 


318  SHANDYGAFF 

will  perhaps  come  to  be  looked  upon  like  gout,  as 
a  sign  of  breeding.  It  will  be  assumed  by  those 
who  have  it  not.  ...  As  civilization  and  cul- 
ture advance,  other  diseases  analogous  to  the 
one  under  consideration  may  be  developed  from 
oversensitiveness  to  sound,  colour,  or  form,  and 
the  man  of  the  twenty-first  or  twenty-second 
century  may  be  a  being  of  pure  intellect  whose 
organization  of  mere  nervous  pulp  would  be 
shattered  by  a  strong  emotion,  like  a  pumpkin 
filled  with  dynamite."  (vide  "Pollen  Therapy  in 
Pollinosis,"  reprinted  from  the  Medical  Record, 
March  18,  1916;  and  many  thanks  to  Mr.  H.  L. 
Mencken,  fellow  sufferer,  for  sending  me  a  copy 
of  this  noble  pamphlet.  I  hope  to  live  to  grasp 
Drs.  Oppenheimer  and  Gottlieb  by  the  hand. 
Their  essay  is  marked  by  a  wit  and  learning  that 
proves  them  f ellow-orgiasts  in  this  hypercultivated 
affliction  of  the  cognoscenti.) 

I  myself  have  sometimes  attempted  to  intimate 
some  of  the  affinities  between  hay  fever  and 
genius  by  attributing  it  (in  the  debased  form  of 
literary  parody)  to  those  of  great  intellectual 
stature.  Upon  the  literary  vehicles  of  expression 
habitually  employed  by  Rudyard  Kipling,  Amy 
Lowell,  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  and  Hilaire  Belloc  I 
have  wafted  a  pinch  of  ragweed  and  goldenrod; 
with  surprising  results.  These  intellectuals  were 


SHANDYGAFF  319 

not  more  immune  than  myself.  For  instance,  this 
is  the  spasm  ejaculated  by  Mr.  Edgar  Lee  Mac- 
ters,  of  Spoon  River: 

Ed  Grimes  always  did  hate  me 

Because  I  wrote  better  poetry  than  he  did. 

In  the  hay  fever  season  I  used  to  walk 

Along  the  river  bank,  to  keep  as  far  as  possible 

Away  from  pollen. 

One  day  Ed  and  his  brother  crept  up  behind  me 

While  I  was  writing  a  sonnet, 

Tied  my  hands  and  feet, 

And  carried  me  into  a  hayfield  and  left  me. 

I  sneezed  myself  to  death. 

At  the  funeral  the  church  was  full  of  goldenrod, 

And  I  think  it  must  have  been  Ed 

Who  sowed  that  ragweed  all  round  my  grave. 

The  Lord  loveth  a  cheerful  sneezer,  and  Mr. 
Masters  deserves  great  credit  for  lending  himself 
to  the  cult  in  this  way. 

I  am  a  fanatical  admirer  of  Mr.  Gerald  Stanley 
Lee,  and  have  even  thought  of  spending  fifty 
of  my  own  dollars,  privily  and  without  collusion 
with  his  publisher,  to  advertise  that  remarkable 
book  of  his  called  "WE"  which  is  probably  the 
ablest  and  most  original,  and  certainly  the  most 
verbose,  book  that  has  been  written  about  the 
war.  Now  Mr.  Lee  (let  me  light  my  pipe  and 
get  this  right)  is  the  most  eminent  victim  of  words 


320  SHANDYGAFF 

that  ever  lived  in  New  England  (or  indeed  any- 
where east  of  East  Aurora).  Words  crowd  upon 
him  like  flies  upon  a  honey-pot:  he  is  helpless  to 
resist  them.  His  brain  buzzes  with  them:  they 
leap  from  his  eye,  distil  from  his  lean  and  wav- 
ing hand.  Good  God,  not  since  Rabelais  and 
Lawrence  Sterne,  miscalled  Reverend,  has  one 
human  being  been  so  beclotted,  bedazzled,  and 
bedrunken  with  syllables.  I  adore  him  for  it, 
but  equally  I  tremble.  Glowing,  radiant,  trans- 
cendent vocables  swim  and  dissolve  in  the  porches 
of  his  brain,  teasing  him  with  visions  far  more 
deeply  confused  than  ever  Mr.  Wordsworth's 
were.  The  meanest  toothbrush  that  bristles 
(he  has  confessed  it  himself)  can  fill  him  with 
thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  publishers. 
Perhaps  the  orotund  soul-wamblings  of  Coleridge 
are  recarnate  in  him,  Scawfell  become  Mount 
Tom.  Who  knows?  Once  I  sat  at  lunch  with 
him,  and  though  I  am  Trencherman  Fortissimus 
(I  can  give  you  testimonials)  my  hamburg  steak 
fell  from  my  hand  as  I  listened,  clutching  perilously 
at  the  hem  of  his  thought.  Nay.  Mr.  Lee,  frown 
not:  I  say  it  in  sincere  devotion-  If  there  is  one 
man  and  one  book  this  country  needs,  now,  it  is 
Gerald  Stanley  Lee  and  "WE."  Set  me  upon 
a  coral  atoll  with  that  volume,  I  will  repopulate 
the  world  with  dictionaries,  and  beget  lusty  tomes 


SHANDYGAFF  321 

It  is  a  breeding-ground  for  a  whole  new  philosophy 
of  heaven,  hell,  and  the  New  Haven  Railroad. 

But  what  I  was  going  to  say  when  I  lit  my 
pipe  was  this:  had  I  the  stature  (not  the  leanness, 
God  forbid:  sweet  are  the  uses  of  obesity)  of  Mr. 
Lee,  I  could  find  in  any  clodded  trifle  the  outlets 
of  sky  my  yearning  mind  covets:  hay  fever  would 
lead  me  by  prismatic  omissions  and  plunging 
ellipses  of  thought  to  the  vaster  spirals  and  eddies 
of  all- vie  wing  Mind.  So  does  Mr.  Lee  proceed, 
weaving  a  new  economics  and  a  new  bosom  for 
advertisiarchs  in  the  mere  act  of  brushing  his 
teeth.  But  alas,  the  recurring  explosions  of  the 
loathsome  and  intellectual  disease  keep  my  nose  on 
the  grindstone — or  handkerchief.  Do  I  begin  to 
soar  on  upward  pinion,  nose  tweaks  me  back  to 
sealpackerchief. 

The  trouble  with  Mr.  Lee  is.  that  he  is  a  kind 
of  Emerson;  a  constitutional  ascete  or  Brahmin, 
battling  with  the  staggering  voluptuosities  of  his 
word-sense ;  a  De  Quincey  needing  no  opium  to  set 
him  swooning.  In  fact,  he  is  a  poet,  and  has  no 
control  over  his  thoughts.  A  poet  may  begin  by 
thinking  about  a  tortoise,  or  a  locomotive,  or  a 
piece  of  sirloin,  and  in  one  whisk  of  Time  his 
mind  has  shot  up  to  the  conceptions  of  Eternity, 
Transportation,  and  Nourishment:  his  cortex 
coruscates  and  suppurates  with  abstract  thought; 


322  SHANDYGAFF 

words  assail  him  in  hordes,  and  in  a  flash  he  is 
down  among  them,  overborne  and  fighting  for  his 
life.  Mr.  Lee  finds  that  millionaires  are  bound 
down  and  tethered  and  stifled  by  their  limousines 
and  coupons  and  factories  and  vast  estates. 
But  Mr.  Lee  himself,  who  is  a  millionaire  and 
landed  proprietor  of  ideas,  is  equally  the  slave  of 
his  thronging  words.  They  cluster  about  him 
like  barnacles,  nobly  and  picturesquely  impeding 
his  progress.  He  is  a  Laocoon  wrestling  with 
serpentine  sentences.  He  ought  to  be  confined  to 
an  eight-hour  paragraph. 

All  this  is  not  so  by  the  way  as  you  think. 
For  if  the  poet  is  one  who  has  lost  control  of  his 
thoughts,  the  hay  fever  sufferer  has  lost  control 
of  his  nose.  His  mucous  membrane  acts  like 
a  packet  of  Roman  candles,  and  who  is  he  to  say 
it  nay?  And  our  village  is  bounded  on  the  north 
by  goldenrod,  on  the  south  by  ragweed,  on  the 
east  by  chickweed,  and  on  the  west  by  a  sleepless 
night. 

I  would  fain  treat  pollinosis  in  the  way  Mr.  Lee 
might  discuss  it,  but  that  is  impossible.  Those 
prolate,  sagging  spirals  of  thought,  those  grape- 
vine twists  of  irremediable  whim,  that  mind 
shimmering  like  a  poplar  tree  in  sun  and  wind- 
jetting  and  spouting  like  plumbing  after  a  freeze- 
up — 'tis  beyond  me.  I  fancy  that  if  Mr.  Lee 


SHANDYGAFF  323 

were  in  bed,  and  the  sheets  were  untucked  at  his 
feet,  he  could  spin  himself  so  iridescent  and  dove- 
throated  and  opaline  a  philosophy  of  the  de- 
sirability of  sleeping  with  cold  feet,  that  either 
(1)  he  would  not  need  to  get  out  of  bed  to  rearrange 
the  bedclothes,  or  (2)  he  could  persuade  someone 
else  to  do  it  for  him.  Think,  then,  what  he  could 
do  for  hay  fever! 

And  as  Dr.  Crothers  said,  when  you  mix  what 
you  think  with  what  you  think  you  think,  efferves- 
cence of  that  kind  always  results. 


APPENDIX 

SUGGESTIONS   FOR   TEACHERS 

THIS  book  will  be  found  exceedingly  valuable 
for  classroom  use  by  teachers  of  theology,  hy- 
draulics, and  applied  engineering.  It  is  recom- 
mended that  it  be  introduced  to  students  before 
their  minds  have  become  hardened,  clotted,  and 
skeptical.  The  author  does  not  hold  himself 
responsible  for  any  of  the  statements  in  the  book, 
and  reserves  the  right  to  disavow  any  or  all  of 
them  under  intellectual  pressure. 

For  a  rapid  quiz,  the  following  suggested  topics 
will  be  found  valuable  for  classroom  consideration : 

1.  Do  you  discern  any  evidences  of  sincerity  and  serious 

moral  purpose  in  this  book? 

2.  Why  was  fifty  dollars  a  week  not  enough  for  Mr. 
Kenneth  Stockton  to  live  on?     Explain  three  ways 
in  which  he  augmented  his  income. 

5.  What  is  a  "colyumist"?     Give  one  notorious  example. 
4.  Comment  on  Don  Marquis's  attitude  toward 

(a)  vers  libre  poets 

(b)  beefsteak  and  onions 

(c)  the  cut  of  his  trousers  (Explain  hi  detail) 

(d)  The  Republican  Party 

324 


SHANDYGAFF  325 

5.  Who  is  Robert  Cortes  Holliday,  and  for  what  is  he 

notable? 

6.  Where  was  Vachel  Lindsay  fumigated,  and  why? 

7.  Who  is  "The  Head  of  the  Firm"? 

8.  How  much  money  did  the  author  spend  on  cider  in 
July,  1911? 

9.  Who  was  Denis  Dulcet,  and  what  did  he  die  of? 

10.  When  did  William  McFee  live  in  Nutley,  and  why? 

11.  How  are  the  works  of  Harold  Bell  Wright  most  useful 
in  Kings,  Long  Island? 

12.  Where  is  Strychnine,  and  what  makes  it  so  fascinating 

to  the  tourist?     Explain 

(a)  The  Gin  Palace 

(b)  Kurdmeister 

(c)  unedifying  Zollverein 

13.  What  time  did  Mr.  Simmons  get  home? 

14.  What  is  a  "rarefied  and    azure-pedalled    precinct?'* 

Give  three  examples. 

15.  Who  are  the  Dioscuri  of  Seamen,  and  what  do  they 
do? 

16.  How  many  pipes  a  day  do  sensible  men  smoke?    De- 
.    scribe  the  ideal  conditions  for  a  morning  pipe. 

17.  When  did  Mr.  Blackwell  light  the  furnace? 

18.  Name  four  American  writers  who  are  stout  enough  to  be 

a  credit  to  the  profession. 

19.  "The   fumes   of   the  hearty  butcher's  evening   meal 
ascend  the  stair  in  vain."     Explain  this.     Who  was 
the  butcher  ?     Why  "  in  vain ' '  ? 

20.  In  what  order  of  the  Animal  Kingdom  does  Mr.  Pearsall 

Smith  classify  himself? 

21.  "I  hope  he  fell  on  the  third  rail."     Explain,  and  give 
the  context.     Who  was  "he,"  and  why  did  he  deserve 
this  fate? 


326  SHANDYGAFF 

22.  Who  was  "Mr.  Loomis,"  and  why  did  he  leave  his 
clothes  lying  about  the  floor? 

23.  What  are  the  Poetry  Society  dinners  doing  to  Vachel 
Lindsay? 

24.  Why  should  the  Literary  Pawnbroker  be  on  his  guard 
against  Mr.  Richard  Le  Gallienne? 

25.  What  is  the  American  House  of  Lords?     WTio  are  "our 
prosperous   carnivora"?     Why   do   they  wear   white 
margins  inside  their  waistcoats? 

26.  What  is  minestrone  ?     Name  three  ingredients. 

27.  What   are   "publisher's   readers,"    and   why  do  they 

smoke  pipes? 

28.  What  was  the  preacher's  advice  to  George  Fox? 

29.  Give  three  reasons  why  Mr.  Gerald  Stanley  Lee  will 

not  like  this  book. 
SO.  Why  should  one  wish  to  grasp  Drs.  Oppenheimer  and 

Gottlieb  by  the  hand? 
31.  In   respect    of    Mr.    Gerald    Stanley    Lee,    comment 

briefly  on  these  phrases : 

(a)  beclotted,  bedazzled,  and  bedrunken  with  syllables 

(b)  the  meanest  toothbrush  that  bristles 

(c)  Scawf  ell  become  Mount  Tom 

FINIS   CORONAT   OPUS 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,   GARDEN  CITY,    NEW    YORK 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


UG25  REC'D 


FEB    6 '91 

JAN  2  8  1991  IK 'II 


i-8,'65(F6282s8)2373 


TflRFn  AT  NRLF 


PS3525.O71S5  1921 


3  2106  00213   1222 


